New Writings in SF 27 (1975)

•••

SIDGWICK & JACKSON

SCIENCE FICTION AUTHORS

INCLUDE

BRIAN ALDISS
AC ASIMOV
DHN BRUNNER
ARTHUR CCLARKE
MURRAY LEINSTER

A.E. VAN VOGT

liEU

IH SFZ7

Edited by Kenneth Bulmer

Featuring

Brian Aldiss Graham Charnock
Vera Johnson Bob van Laerhoven
John Rackham Keith Wells

O

O)

NEW WRITINGS IN SF 27

Edited by Kenneth Bulmer

Kenneth Bulmer has selected ten brand-
new stories, by old and new writers, for
this popular series. 'By one of those
chances that delight', he writes, 'this
volume seems to have grown itself
around a theme. Human emotions - raw,
subtle overpowering, controlled - man-
ipulated as ideas within image, these are
what these stories celebrate ; but, because
they are SF, we are faced also with
emotions from machine-mobiles and from
beings who are not of this Earth.'

This collection contains the following
stories :

BARTHOLOMEW & SON
(AND THE FISH GIRL)

by Michael G, Goney

THE DAY THEY CUT OFF
THE POWER

by Vera Johnson

A TIME OF MIND

by Keith Wells

YEAR BY YEAR THE
EVIL GAINS

by Brian W. Aldiss

LONG TIME AGO, NOT
FORGOTTEN

by Bob Van Laerhoven

ZONE

by Peter Linnett

HEATWAVE

by David Langford

HEAL THYSELF

by John Rackham

CASSIUS AND THE
MIND-JAUNT

by Colin Kapp

THE OBSERVER

by Graham Charnock

Sidewick & Jackson

£3-95

U.K. ONLY

'V,'

*■ >

’ 'O :

V

.it _

. '

NEW WRITINGS IN SF 26

Edited by Kenneth Bulmer

A PLANET CALLED CERVANTES

by John Keith

MEN OF GOOD VALUE
by Christopher Priest

THREE COINS IN ENIGMATIC
FOUNTAINS

by Brian W. Aldiss

THE PHOBOS TRANSCRIPTS

by Cherry Wilder

THE MAN WHO
by David S. Garnett

YOU GET LOTS OF YESTERDAYS,

LOTS OFTOMORROWS AND ONLY
ONE TODAY

by Laurence James

V

MURDERS

by Ramsey Campbell

TO THE PUMP ROOM WITH JANE

by Ian Watson

THE SEAFARER

by Ritchie Smith and Thomas Penman

Jacket design by Dave Sumner
ISBN 0 283 98221 7

Write for catalogue to:
SIDGWICK & JACKSON LIMITED
1 Tavistock Chambers, Bloomsbury Way
London WCIA 2SG

NEW WRITINGS IN SF

27

In the same series

New Writings in SF 1-26

Neiu Writings

in SF

edited by

KENNETH BULMER

SIDGWICK & JACKSON

LONDON

First published in Great Britain by
Sidgwick and Jackson Limited in 1975
Copyright •© i 975 by Kenneth Bulmer

‘Bartholomew & Son (and the fish girl)’ by Michael G. Coney.
Copyright © 1975 Michael G. Coney

‘The Day they Cut off the Power’ by Vera Johnson. Copyright ©
1975 Vera Johnson

‘A Time of Mind’ by Keith Wells. Copyright © 1975 Keith Wells
‘Year by Year the Evil Gains’ by Brian W. Aldiss. Copyright © 107c
Brian W. Aldiss

‘Long Time Ago, not Forgotten’ by Bob Van Laerhoven. CoDvrivht
© 1975 Bob Van Laerhoven

‘Zone’ by Peter Linnett. Copyright © 1975 Peter Linnett
‘Heatwave’ by David Langford. Copyright © 1975 David Langford
‘Heal Thyself’ by John Rackham. Copyright © 1975 John Rackham
Cassius and the Mind-Jaunt’ by Colin Kapp. Copyright © 107c
Colin Kapp

‘The Observer’ by Graham Charnock. Copyright © 1975
Graham Charnock

ISBN o 283 98221 7

Printed in Great Britain bj
The Garden Ci^ Press Limited,
letchworth, Hertfordshire, SG 6 1 JS
for Sidgwick and Jackson Limited
1 Tavistock Chambers, Bloomsbury Way
London WClA 2 SG

CONTENTS

page

Foreword by Kenneth Bulmer 7

Bartholomew & Son (and the Fish-Girl)

by Michael G, Coney 1 1

The Day They Cut off the Power by Vera Johnson 39

A Time of Mind by Keith Wells 53

Year by Year the Evil Gains by Brian W. Aldiss 7^

Long Time Ago, Not Forgotten by Bob Van Laerhoven 93

Zone by Peter Linnett I 07 -

Heatwave by David Langford 12 1

Heal Thyself by John Rackham I 35

The Observer by Graham Charnock 15 1

Cassius and the Mind-Jaunt by Colin Kapp 161

'I

FOREWORD

by

Kenneth Bulmer

There are no other conventions or conferences quite like
science fiction conventions. The reasons for this happy state
of affairs are lengthy, complex and besides being highly
revealing are highly satisfactory. Do not, however, jump to
the conclusion that people who regularly attend SF conven-
tions are complacent about these gathering. Far from it.

The first English convention was held in Leeds in 1937,
followed in 1938 by the first of very many London conven-
tions. The World SF Convention, most of which have been
held in the U.S.A., is run on a rota system. The U.S. is
divided into three zones. East and West Coast, and the Mid-
west. Other countries of the world have from time to time
hosted the World convention, and Australia was the venue
in 1975. London has seen two World conventions, in 1957
and 1965. Now, strong bidding will be taking place for the
next British World Convention to be held here in 1979. The
campaign slogan is Britain is fine in seventy nine.

It was at a convention — SFancon Five held in Gent to
which the Belgian SF enthusiasts had kindly invited me—
that I first met Bob Van Laerhoven, author of 'Long Time
Ago, Not Forgotten\ As Guest of Flonour I had the pleasant
task of presenting Bob Van Laerhoven with his award for
writing the winning story in a competition sponsored by
the Belgian SF club whose leading lights, Simon Joukes,
Andre de Rycke and their friends, made of the Gent con-
vention a first class gathering. More than fifty people from
Britain made the pilgrimage to Gent and it so happened the
con coincided with a British week there. I think the con
attendees added no little colour to the proceedings. Long
Time Ago, Not Forgotten’ was written after the convention.

7

and combined with the translation by Les Cornwell are the
effects of some delightful turns of phrase that are foreign to
the English ear. They help to reinforce the deliberate alien-
ness of the story , making it memorable as an example of
language being used to express the veiy strangeness of the
speaker within the story.

Michael G. Coney’s story which leads off this volume
contains a large number of interesting notions skilfully
blended to form an intriguing package around the central
theme, "^e author now lives in Canada and has recently

been writing novels that have received some considerable
attention.

All readers of new writings will be pleased to welcome
another new lady writer to these pages, and one may add,
m parenthesis, that meeting Vera Johnson is quite an ex-
^rience, as many con attendees will attest as they recall

four a.m. guitar sessions in various hotel corridors. Vera
says of herself ;

Quote . I knew as soon as I learned to read that I was
going to be a writw, but there were distractions along the
way the depression, secretarial jobs, the war, a husband
and three daughters. Sold my first story in 1949. Sold
others, radio plays, won a couple of contests, then a three
months scholarship at the Institute Allende, Mexico. One
story listed on Roll of Honour of ‘Best American Short
Stories of 1953’. 1966 decided to make a full-time

career of folksinging. So busy writing songs, didn’t get
back to fiction until 1972, and then tackled SF— a new
field, though I’d been reading it since 1937. Now spend
about two months a year in Vancouver, six months tour-
ing British folk clubs, four months touring Canada and
the U.S.A. Have made two LPs, one in the U.S.A. and one
m England.’ Unquote

With A Time of Mind’ Keith Wells continues his zestful
^tack on the humdrum begun with his highly successful
The Cat and the Coin’ in new writings in sf 23. The sense
of the paranormal operating logically beyond the confines
of our every day reality is faithfully recorded, and the
recorded highlights translated into terms that carry us be-

8

vond the bounds of this mortal earth. If strangeness-
otherness— can show us an emotional flowering, as in Mr.
Van Laerhoven’s story, through a compacted and unusual
use of language, might not language itself, as has been sug-
gested, control the dynamic flow of events ?

* In ‘Year by Year the Evil Gains’ written with the usual
impeccable style associated with Brian W. Aldiss, we are
transported to the surface of Jupiter, and not, I hasten to
point out, in a balloon. When Pioneer II transitted the orbit
of Jupiter’s smallest moon, Amlathea, some of the instru-
ments went wild; but at the point of closest approach no
less than 10,000,000 high energy electrons bombarded every
square inch— enough to kill stone dead every person on
earth above ground in one second, according to reports.
Interestingly enough. Pioneer II is programmed to
Saturn on 5th September, 1979, just about the time of the

next British World Convention. u t

Peter Linnett makes a point of insisting to me (in what I
consider to be something of a defensive spirit) that not all
his closest friends are undertakers. The undercover know-
ledge displayed in ‘And When I Die’ in 24 made a more
direct disclaimer imperative, and here, in the form of a
sombre and chilling piece, ‘Zone’, Peter Linnet provides us
with the required proof. ‘Zone’ and Vera Johnson s story in
this volume, taken together, must give us all food for
thought in deciding what we want to do for the best in the
future for youth. It is not beyond the bounds of possibility
that these two stories would find ready markets among
some governments to be put into policy documents today.

Now for a complete change of mood. David Langford
who is something of a parodist in the best — or worst
Oxford tradition, has his thumb placed squarely on the
computer’s start button. But also, slyly, he has his little
finger as firmly fixed on the query button. It’s a frightening
thought; but from that aspect, ‘Heatwave’ is all too believ-
able!

Graham Chamock’s ‘The Observer’ has much the same
effect as an electron microscope and the sensitive enquiry
beneath the surfaces of life augurs well for the future work

9

of Graham Chamock, whose first story for new writings
this is.

Both John Rackham and Colin Kapp have appeared a
number of times previously in new writings and here they
present us with new stories that indicate their developing
mterests. The Rackham is another of his rural scenes that
makes no concessions to modem artificiality, while Kapp

takes his hardware into the pulpy softness of the human
brain.

Here are ten brand new stories, by old and new writers
By one of those chances that delight, this volume seems to
have grown itself around a theme. Human emotions — ^raw
subtle, overpowering, controlled— manipulated as idea
within image, these are what these stories celebrate; but,
because they are SF we are faced also with emotions from
machine-mobiles and from beings who are not of this Earth,

Kenneth Bulmer

10

BARTHOLOMEW & SON (AND THE FISH-GIRL)

by

Michael G, Coney

Slithes were emotion receptors and reflectors, and
working with them had turned Joe Sagar into a keen
observer of the teeming life of the Teninsula. H
could see and shake his head over the mytho-poetic
qualities of the strands entangling the lives of h
acquaintances. And what he eventually discovere
about a judge of human nature— and fish nature, too
—a clever designer, a man who could weave dreams

from metal and glass and paint. ‘I 1

with light and shade who knew how to l^et
emotions, gave him a clearer

more things and people than merely the two Bar-
tholomews, father and son, and Cariocu Jo .
emotion mobiles ...not forgetting the fish girl . . .

♦

BARTHOLOMEW & SON (AND THE FISH-GIRL)

Most evenings I sit alone in the living room of my two-
storey house on the east coast of the Peninsula. Recently the
slithe farm has occupied most of the daylight houre, so y
the time I have locked the little animals in their hutch«,
showered and changed and eaten, and stretched out on the
chesterfield opposite the window to think about things, the
sun is a pink memory in the sky above the flat black land
and the islands in the Strait have become eene like floating
things. Occasionally, far out, the wake of a fast toat will
elitter silver and once or twice I have seen sling-ghders rise
high into the thin sunlight and glow like cinders against the

pale cold sky. . ,,

In the comer of the room, beside the inoperative 3-V

alcove, stands an emotion mobile. I never switch it on, not
even for company.

One

Since the tsunami following the Western Seaboard Slide the
Peninsula has been sparsely populated. There are but two
centres of population; Louise in the south, now almost^
city, and Roberts Bay in the north, where I live. Roberts
Bay is scarcely more than a village but has a good touris
trade during the summer, when the curious come to samp e
the unique atmosphere of the northern extremity of the
Peninsula, with its flat landscape, indented coastline, wild

life and yacht marinas. , 1

One January morning I was driving along a track marked

by broken, flattened bmsh and grass where the ground-

13

effect vehicles had passed. Every now and then I would
catch sight of a movement among the bushes; usually by
the time I looked, everything was still— but once I saw a
garden barracuda, all teeth and cold eyes, lying beside a tall
clump of grass, gills pulsing. Nearby a small octopus hung
draped over the low branch of a cedar. It is at a time like
this that a man begins to think of mechanical breakdowns.

Further on a new sign stood beside the track; it read:
BARTHOLOMEW. I tumed left, drove up to the old low house
at the water’s edge and stopped. I climbed from the hover-
car, gathered the quiescent slithe up from the back seat, and
made my way past a rough timber shack to the front door
of the house. Knocking on the peeling paintwork I glanced
involuntarily behind, feeling pursued, half-expecting to see
the barracuda threading glistening through the tussocks of
the oversown garden towards me. A youth emerged from
the shack, wiping his hands on paint-streaked clothing

‘What do you want?’ he asked in belligerent tones; then
he saw the slithe in my arms. ‘Oh, you’ll be Joe Sagar. Dad

said you’d be coming. What the hell he wants with a slithe
I can’t think.’

‘Neither can I,’ I agreed politely.

Teah, well maybe I can/ the younger Bartholomew
contradicted himself. ‘He’s lost confidence, the old man has.
He needs the animal to bear out his judgement, such as it
IS/ So saying, he disappeared into the shack/ leaving me
alone with the possibility of barracudas.

Fortunately the door opened at this moment; a pleasant-
faced middle-aged man stood there, smiling faintly. ‘Come
m, Mr. Sagar,’ he said. ‘I’m Hector Bartholomew.’

Later we sat in Bartholomew’s studio; a large room of
incredible untidiness, overlooking the sea. Around us stood
the mobiles. Bartholomew had been telling me about him-
self, and why he had come to the Peninsula six months ago.

Peace of mind, Mr. Sagar,’ he was saying. ‘That’s the
secret of sculpting. Back on the mainland I got so that I
couldn’t create at all — ^you know what the pressure’s like
over there . . . Here, it s peaceful. Nobody bothers you — no
traffic, no crowds. People come here for fun, and you can

14

sense it. You need to be relaxed if you want to create good

"" The slithe stirred in my arms. It was mid-afternoon and I
couldn’t stay here all day, but there was something restful
Xut irthtow and it was good to feel relaxed m he
presence of a fellow man. You get so many weirdos on the
Peninsula. ‘Uh, I’d like to see your mobiles, I ventured.

^ He came out of his trance. ‘Of ’

forgetting . . . That’s what you’re here for, isn t it? Right . . .

He drew the drapes and flicked a switch and the nearest
mSiile came to slow life, glowing, surrounding itself m a
Sautiful helix of emerald light while a soft murmur of
deep sound filled the room, pulsing like the 'waves of the
oceL The helix revolved upon itself quietly and endlessly.
Sting through turquoise to cobalt to silver, while I
thought of the warm tropic sea and the the

intricate coral and brilliant fishes, the girl, and love . .

Solomew switched it off and »dde„ y was
at a strange conglomeration of twisted metal, tiny sprock
Ss aS cha4 and light bulbs, all on a black plinth and
Sndtag about two feet high. It was all gone, the mood, the
the only thing left was

fS.t nine and grey, he wo« a brown gcket wrth pin
Streaks and as he tumed away and opened the drapes ms
^ams had that baggy look at the seat which old nten s pants

^^Yet even the animal in my lap had appreciated his
JS, AS the drapes rustled back and
with light Bartholomew’s eyes went straight to th
Tnd heT/hed. I looked down. The ejnotmn-sen.tive skin^f
the little reptile was glowing pmk with pleasure,
watched, the colour faded slowly.

Bartholomew “^^Sw why

‘Incredible,’ he murmured. Now you Know w y

>'TlSrLcf« Mm. -can't you trust what people tell

^°His eves clouded; he sat down, looking suddenly tired.
‘Nm w4n my own mind keeps telling me my work

15

deteriorating. I tell you, Mr. Sagar, it’s a tightrope. Each
mobile I create, I think to myself : it’s not so good as the
last. I’m losing my touch. You understand, it’s a delicate
thing I’m moulding. The emotions . . . One wrong touch and
people will laugh. Or scream . . .’ His voice was hesitant; he
was expressing himself poorly but I thought I knew what
he meant. ‘No, I need a guinea pig to reassure me, a
creature unlike Man with his false words. I need an un-
thinking animal guided by instinct alone. A slithe. I can’t
believe what people tell me. I can’t even believe my own
son . . .’

He let the words hang there. ‘Your son is an artist too, I
understand,’ I said brightly.

‘We’re arranging a joint exhibition in April,’ he replied.

Later that week Carioca Jones called. I was in the work-
shop where a group of female State Prisoners were stitching
slitheskins with dull resentment, the dark blue tone of the
skins they handled bearing testimony to their mood. I feel it
is my duty to support the penal system by hiring these
people and so helping the Penitentiary to become self-
supporting, but sometimes I wonder if it is worth it. Dave
Froehlich, himself an S.P. man but bonded to me by con-
tract, entered.

‘Miss Jones is in the yard,’ he announced coldly. He
resented me too.

I hurried outside to find the ex 3-V star posing against
the gate, dressed like a model, appearing not to notice my
approach as she gazed out to sea, her white-gloved hand
shading her eyes, her chin raised to smooth the wrinkles.
Flopped on the ground at her feet lay her land shark, gills
pulsing as it watched a terrified cluster of slithes huddled
against the far end of the nearest pen.

Hello, Carioca,’ I said. ‘Look, I hop)e you don’t mind my
mentioning it, but your fish is alarming the slithes.’ By now
the small reptiles were trampling on one another, almost
yellow with fear.

‘Joe darling i How nice to see you, it’s been ages.’ She
smiled carefully as she turned towards me, her dark eyes
opaque.

16

‘Carioca, the fish, please.’ . ,

‘Oh, Wilberforce is quite harmless, you y,f;

Why those silly little animals should make a ^
can’t think. Anyway, it was Wilberforce I j

about. I’m entering him in the pet show nex
want to order a little something for him. You know,

7 u ff, to put round his neck._ He has a fine head, and a rutt

would set it ofE beautifully.’ dragged behind

I led the way to the workshop. The nsn aragg

with its unpleasant undulating gait. ctood

The S.P. girls had downed tools in my absenc
talking in I sullen group. There was no sign of Dave I
addressed one of the girls. ‘Jean, measure up the tisn 10

’^^She looLd me straight in the eye you? not

expression favoured by State said ‘I

they, are the criminals. ‘I’ll do no such thing, she said.

know my rights. And will you look at those tee .

Carioca flushed and was about to sPf of

girl burst out: ‘Oh. aren’t you Canoca Jones. Pres

the Foes of Bondage? ^ ^ ^ tVte others and

There was a murmur of recognition from * . , ,

the sullenness was instantly gone. Their
arrived : Carioca Jones, the woman who M fought am
cause-though for dubious motives-from j

on the Peninsula. They clustered like

thought ‘disgustedly clutching at her skim^ Sh

a queen. ‘Are you all happy here? she askea gi 7

he treating you well ?’

‘For God’s sake, Carioca,’ I muttered. ^

The damage was done. ‘Here’s a measure, said one oi tn

State Prisoners, handing it to me. v,. , "ood cus-

Carioca was watching me now, and she 1 ^

tomer. Nervously I twisted the measure ^
and, holding it like a garotte, tried to
shark from behind. The brute was too jf^^h’d^wn-

hung iaw. I jerked back, fear turning to temper.

‘Se hell with this,’ I snapped. ‘You measure the bastard,

Carioca 1 ’

17

She seemed to gain height and her adorers fell away from
her like dead leaves. *What did you say, Joe?’

‘Sorry, sony. The fish scared me, that’s all. Would you
mind measuring him yourself, Carioca?’

‘Oh . . . Here, let me have that.’ She knelt before the huge
shark; its eyes were level with hers, they watched her icily.
Smiling, talking reassuringly to the brute, she slipped the
measure over its flat head and read oif the inches. She
straightened up and addressed us all. ‘That’s what love will
do. I have no need of slaves around me to bolster my ego
with their servility. An easy conscience and the love of a
good animal is all I ask, I have need of no more . . .’ It was
her platform speech and I daresay the S.P. girls had heard it
before, too; but they showed no signs of boredom as they
watched her, entranced. I would get no more work from
them today; Carioca Jones was telling them that work was
degrading, and Carioca Jones was their leader. At last she
finished and smiled at me triumphantly, having revenged
herself for my ill-tempered outburst.

‘Can I drive you home, Carioca?’ I asked, resignedly. It
was a traditional offer; a small part of the price I paid for
her custom.

‘To the kennels if you don’t mind, Joe,’ she said. ‘Wilber-
force must be fitted for a new oxygenator. He’s gasping a
lot lately, hadn’t you noticed?’

I had, but it was not the sort of thing I would comment
on. Then, as we made for the car, she hesitated, glancing at
me. ‘Joe . . . Slip back and get a piece of slitheskin, will
you?’

Dave was nearby with some new pelts, freshly shed. I
called him over and he handed one to Carioca; she tied it in
a loose loop and slipped it over the land shark’s neck.
Kneeling, she put her arm around the fish’s sinuous body
and gazed into the cold eye. ‘Show Uncle Joe how much
you love me, Wilberforce,’ she cooed.

The sad flat trap of the mouth parted slightly, the eye
swivelled back and met the woman’s. The emotion-sensitive
slitheskin remained obstinately dun-coloured, draped
around the rough grey neck like a rag. Even where it

i8

touched the fish’s skin, there was not the slightest trace of

the pink of pleasure. , , , ,

‘It’s a freshly-shed skin, Carioca,’ I mumbled, embar-
rassed. ‘It hasn’t matured properly yet.’

She stood, whipped the skin from the shark s neck, threw
it at Dave and climbed silently into my hovercar, Wilber-
force leaping ponderously after her. A few minutes later we
arrived at the kennels; despite the shortness of the journey,
the car stank abominably of fish by the time we pulled up
and got out. 1 opened the back door and Canoca dragged

Wilberforce forth, none too gently.

Pacific Kennels is a small operation run by a vet name
Miranda Marshbanks, a statuesque woman with pretensions
towards the cultural image. Her house was visible among
the trees, a mock-tudor monster with leaded wmdwvs and
shrub-acned lawns. We stood beside the business end of the
venture which consisted of a rectangular arena, some for y
feet by twenty, enclosed by tall chain-link fencing. Down
the long sides were rows of hutches each of vvhich had a
strong steel-barred door at either end, one opening into the
arena, the other outwards. Fearsome faces stared at us as
we walked towards the house. The arena was full of strange
beasts; the chill air had rendered them comatose. I saw
dogfish and squid, giant anemones and turtles, wolf eels
and, out of place in this sinister company, a smiling mam-
malian dolphin. Among all these a girl in S.P. coveralls
walked, casually stepping through a milling group of gre-

garious sharks. i r

Carioca Jones nearly fell as Wilberforce lunged for the

fence with jaws agape, eager to kill something.

‘Well, Carioca, how nice to see you. And Wilberforce . . .
This is a pleasant surprise.’ Miss Marshbanks bore down on
us, a horse mackerel frisking at her heels.

‘Miranda . . .’ The women embraced effusively then step-
ped back a pace, fencing for an opening.

‘Oh, dear, I can see what the trouble is.’ Miss Marshbanks
knelt beside the land shark and prodded the brute as he lay
gasping on the grass, exhausted by the short walk. ‘We re
growing too fat, aren’t we, dear?’ Wilberforce made a

19

token slash at her hand. ‘And a fat fish is a bad-tempered
fish, isn’t it?’

‘Actually, Miranda darling, I brought Wilberforce to
have his oxygenator replaced.’ Carioca glanced towards the
arena. ‘Is that a bonded girl you have there?’

‘Yes. Rosalie. She’s quite good.’

‘Well, my dear. I’m sure she needs to be, with all those
strange creatures in there. How clever of you to get a
bonded girl for the job.’ Carioca knew better than any of us
that a bonded State Prisoner must take anything his em-
ployer cares to throw at him — in return for a one-third
remission of sentence. ‘She can do Wilberforce, if you’re so
worried about his temper.’

‘My dear Carioca, pets don’t worry me. I have a way
with them. However . . .’ She took a step towards the arena
then hesitated with a slight frown. Tlie girl Rosalie was
leaning against the far side of the fence, talking animatedly
with a young man who I thought I recognised. ‘No, she’s
busy. I won’t interrupt them; Jonathan Bartholomew’s such
a nice lad. Just like his father. Hector Bartholomew. You
know, the Hector Bartholomew. The sculptor.’ She drove
her point home mercilessly. ‘I have one of his works in the
house; he gave it me. As a gift. Although . . .’ she sighed, ‘I
really feel Jonathan has more talent. I have one of his
works too; I fancy it has more impact. How fortunate we
are to have two such talented artists — ^world-renowned, I
might say — living here on the Peninsula. You know them,
of course, Carioca dear?’

Carioca did not reply; she was watching Jonathan Bar-
tholomew as the boy chatted, smiling, with the bonded S.P.
girl. There was a predatory gleam in her black eyes.

‘I’ll introduce you sometime,’ continued Miranda, cor-
rectly interpreting the silence. ‘But not now. I really must
be getting on with my work. Just leave Wilberforce with
me, my dear, and I’ll have him ready for you tomorrow.
Bye, then,’ she concluded brightly.

The light of battle glowed in Carioca Jones’ eyes as we
walked back to the hovercar.

20

Two

I MENTIONED the girl Rosalie to Hector Bartholomew the
next time I visited him. We were sitting on the patio over-
looking the Strait in an unseasonable burst of February
sunshine; far out across the water a speeding launch whip-
ped around the Fulcrum post, flinging a sling-glider into the

pale sky. . . . i.

‘I’d heard about that.’ Bartholomew was squinting, watch-
ing the tiny glider banking inland. ‘Not from Jonathan,
though. He never mentions the girl. It’s his own business, I

reckon.’ He frowned slightly.

At that moment Jonathan appeared around the side of
the house, saw us and sat down on a nearby chair. ‘How’s it
going?’ he asked. He smiled at the slithe in my lap. After
the initial belligerence he had displayed at our first meeting,
his attitude towards me had mellowed; in fact he was turn-
ing out to be quite a pleasant lad. ‘Did you fix the old man’s
mobiles?’ He and his father than discussed their individual
philosophies regarding the purpose of emotion mobiles;
although they appeared to disagree on almost every point, I
sensed a deep bond of friendship between them.

After a while the door-bell rang. Hector Bartholomew
left and after a few moments I heard a familiar voice trill-
ing at the front of the house. Shortly afterwards Carioca
Jones stepped onto the patio, black eyes darting about
appraisingly and finally settling on Jonathan like meat flies.
Hector introduced her to his son, somewhat reluctantly, I
thought.

‘I was so fascinated by one of your mobiles I saw at
Miranda Marshbank’s place, Mr. Bartholomew . . .
Although she addressed the father, her eyes dwelt specu-
latively on Jonathan. ‘Of course. I’ve seen them on the 3-V
from time to time, who hasn’t? I mean, the name Bar-
tholomew is a household word. But you don t get the same
effect unless you see them in the flesh . . .*

‘Yes, well . . . Uh, what can we do for you. Miss Jones?’
There was distaste in Bartholomew’s expression as he re-
garded the middle-aged woman with the overdone eyes.

‘Oh, this is just a social call, Mr. Bartholomew . . . May I

21

call you Hector? It is Hector, isn’t it? And Jonathan ...
You must call me Carioca. No, 1 insist. Well . . .’ She settled
back in a chair, smiling. ‘Isn’t this too pleasant, and such a
view ? We really ought to have got acquainted before this;
I’ve been terribly remiss with my visiting recently; interest-
ing new people move in and I don’t even know they’re here
. . . But then. I’ve been so busy with the Foes of Bondage
and my other social work . . .’

Toes of Bondage?’ Jonathan spoke for the first time.

‘I’m the President this year; it’s an onerous position but
so rewarding. Someone must take a stand against those
fiends who call themselves the Government, otherwise
where would we be?’

‘The Foes of Bondage is a women’s action group,’ I ex-
plained to Hector who was looking puzzled.

‘The ranks of the Foes are open to all, regardless of race,
colour or creed, or sex,’ Carioca said, rather sharply. ‘We
are dedicated to the reform of the Penal Code which, under
our present laws, is simply legalized slavery. Merely be-
cause a person has made a mistake, committed a so-called
crime, does not mean that he should be stripped of all
dignity. In the old days — and we of the Foes consider them
the more civilised days — a convicted person was left alone
to meditate the error of his ways in the privacy of his cell.
There was no coercion; he joined in the activities of his
fellow prisoners if he wished; he could read, study; there
were cinemas and organised hobbies. Everyone was happy.
But now — what happens? A prisoner is put to work — ^hired
out like a pack animal to those whose work is too rough for
them. Even that wouldn’t be so bad, if it were not for
Bondage. The principle of Bondage is an abomination,
Hector dear.’

‘I understood a prisoner undertook to be bonded of his
own free will,’ said Bartholomew mildly.

‘Quite; but little does he realise what’s in store for him. In
return for a paltry one-third remission of sentence he is
forced to do anything his employer wants. Anything,*
Carioca laughed shortly, and once again I was amazed at
the brevity of her memory . . . ‘And we all know what
some people are like.’

22

Hector had been watching Carioca with very little ex-
pression on his mild face; he spoke quietly. ‘I believe a man
gets what he deserves. Miss Jones. If you’re suggesting we
go back to the old days when a crook was paid by the
taxpayer to sit on his ass all day you’re even more stupid
than you look. The State Pens are self-supporting, now. Let’s
keep it that way.’

‘Well, really,’ Carioca murmured, for once looking flus-
tered. ‘You artists, you’re so blunt,* She glanced around for
support. ‘But you agree with me, don’t you, Jonathan
dear?’ Instinctively, she had found the one wedge she could
drive between father and son.

Jonathan looked at Hector. ‘I think the Bondage system is
pretty despicable,’ he said. ‘You talk about the bad old days;
well. Bondage goes back even further. It’s feudal.’

Hector Bartholomew’s eyes met mine and I saw an
appeal for help there; but there was nothing I could say.
The damage had been done, and after a while Jonathan
took Carioca to see his mobiles. They emerged from the
shack just as I was leaving.

‘Why, they’re wonderful, Jonathan,’ Carioca was saying.
‘Such power, such virility. And the music ! I’ve never heard
music like it. You must come over to my place soon.
Tomorrow. I play the orchestrella and I’m quite good,
really. I’d love to play some of your things.’

‘I’d noticed you had beautiful hands, Carioca,’ said
Jonathan, fatuously.

She held them up, slender and pale in the February sun-
light, and I shuddered as I hurried for my car.

I had seen the graft scars, white and thin around the

wrists . . .

One evening a few weeks later I was taking a stroll along
the sea wall. There had been a lot of activity in the Strait;
sling-gliders practicing for the start of the season. They
were making a wide turn around Roberts Bay and dropping
to the water near the sea wall where their assistants were
waiting to drag the pilots from the water and lay the tiny
wood and fabric gliders on the grass to dry. I paused for a
while to speak to Doug Marshall, then I resumed my walk

23

inland along the lane, approaching the sea again at a tiny
wharf about a mile from Bartholomew’s place. I walked on
to the ancient timbers and scanned the Strait; it was becom-
ing dark and most of the gliding was finished.

A sound caused me to jerk around, my heart thumping
suddenly. In the twilight the possibility of a shoal of land
sharks is never far from my mind. There have been some
unpleasant incidents on the Peninsula recently; escaped pets
forming killer packs, preying on livestock and occasionally
Man.

‘It’s . . . It’s Mr. Sagar, isn’t it?’ A girl stepped from beside
the small corrugated iron hut at the end of the wharf; I’d
been so busy watching the gliders I hadn’t noticed her.

‘Oh.’ She must have heard the relief in my voice and I felt
an idiot. ‘Hello, Rosalie.’ It was Miranda Marshbanks’ fish-
girl.

‘I’ve been watching the gliders,’ she said. ‘They’re beauti-
ful. It must be marvellous to fly like that. So free . . . Have
you ever been up in one, Mr. Sagar ? ’

I shivered. ‘Not me. I’d rather keep my feet on the
ground, thanks. Why don’t you ask Jonathan to take you
up ? He knows some of the club members. They have a two-
man trainer there.’

She was silent, turning away and staring across the Strait.
The wind ruffled her long hair and I watched her for a
moment, wondering what her crime was. I heard her sniff
and realised to my dismay that she was crying.

‘Look, uh, can I help? It’s often better to talk about it. So
they say.’

She turned towards me at that, leaning against me while
she dampened my collar with her tears, and told me the old
story.

Jonathan wasn’t seeing her any more. He’d given her up
and she thought it was because she wasn’t worthy of him,
being a cuh-criminal. She’d never loved anyone like she
loved Jonathan, and now he was gone and she couldn’t bear
it, and Miss Marshbanks was a pig. She was so unhappy and
she had been looking forward to her release in a few weeks’
time when she and Jonathan had been going to get married,
but now it was all over and she had nothing left to live for.

24

‘So I’m going to tell Miss Marshbanks just what I think of
her and she’ll revoke my cuh-contract and I’ll lose my re-
mission and I’ll have to go back to that awful prison for
months, maybe years,’ she concluded in a welter of deli-

cious pessimism. .

‘Nof you’re not,’ I said, firmly. ‘You’re going to keep

quiet and be good and you’ll be free in a couple of weeks,

and by then Jonathan will have changed his mind again and

everything will be all right. You’ll see. ^

‘How do you know? He doesn’t love me any more . . .

‘That affair broke up weeks ago,’ Hector Bartholomew
told me as we sat drinking in the studio overlooking the
dark sea. Mobiles stood around in varying stages of comple-
tion, yet there was an unused look about l^hem, a dusty
appearance as though work had been suspended. I was
pretty damned sorry about it, too. Jonathan and I had a he

I was surprised. ‘I thought you weren t happy about him

going about with an S.P . girl. c

‘There are worse things than S.P. girls. Then for a while

Bartholomew was silent. He stood, slowly, looking older
and refilled the glasses. ‘Jonathan’s moved out, he said at
last. ‘That woman Jones has set him up m a studio at
place. Christ knows what goes on there. She’s old enough to
be his grandmother. 1 saw him the other day. He says he s
working. I don’t know.’

I let his hesitant words hang in the air for a whil^then
said : ‘You and he were pretty close, weren t you . Then 1
cursed myself silently for speaking in the past tense.

‘Years ago 1 got custody of him when my wife and I
separated . . . Which shows how close we were, even then
We’ve always had the same interests. He’ll be a better a is
than me, one day. But we always did things toget^ er, you
understand, Joe? And now . . . You remember the joint ex-
hibition we were organising?’

‘Yes ’

‘It’s on Friday. It’s still being held. But it won’t ^ ^
exhibition any more— Carioca Jones will see to that. It be

a competition . . .’

25

Three

I CALLED on Carioca Jones on the Thursday to find her full
of excitement over the forthcoming exhibition. ‘Jonathan's
done some simply wonderful mobiles, Joe,’ she told me. ‘I’d
invite you for a preview in the studio, but he’s there now
putting the finishing touches and he hates being disturbed.
Such a sensitive boy.’

I gave her the slitheskin ruff for the land shark and
apologised for the delay.

‘That’s quite all right, Joe darling. And in any case,
Wilberforce is at Miranda Marshbanks’ kennels for a few
days.’

‘Oh? Nothing serious, I hope?’

For once Carioca looked discomfited. ‘Er ... It’s awk-
ward, you see — he disturbs Jonathan. Somehow Jonathan
doesn’t seem to like him and Wilberforce senses it; he’s so
perceptive that way. It’s a long story.’ She sighed. ‘But to
cut it short, Wilberforce snapped at Jonathan, just a little
snap. And it’s so important that Jonathan is able to create
with a serene mind right now with the exhibition on top of
us, so I thought it best for Wilberforce to be out of the way
for a while. And he simply loves Miranda.’

‘I’m sorry about that. Do you think Jonathan will be
around ? I wanted to see him for a moment.’

‘Well . . .’ she said, doubtfully. ‘I’m not sure. Is it that
important?’

‘It’s about his father.’

Instantly her attitude hardened. ‘In that case, Joe darling,

I most certainly won’t have him disturbed. Really, that
awful man. Just thinking about him makes my blood
boil!’

‘For God’s sake, Carioca, what’s he ever done to you ? ’

‘My dear, he’s so uncouth, so rude. I can only assume that
Jonathan got his nice manners from his mother. His father’s
rudeness drove Jonathan from his home, and when I offered
the poor boy sanctuary, that dreadful man came pounding
on my door one night, blind drunk, and called me the most
abominable names I ’

My opinion of the mild-mannered Hector Bartholomew

26

rose further at this. There was no point in pursuing the
conversation, so I expressed sympathy and left.

I drove into Louise for lunch, and later walked along the
main street to the Princess Louise, the ancient beached liner
around which the small city is built. There was activity at
the entrance and signs were being put up advertising to-
morrow’s Joint Exhibition of Emotion Mobiles. The name
of Bartholomew seemed to be everywhere and suddenly 1
saw Jonathan himself going inside. 1 followed, and eventu-
ally ran him to ground in the coifee shop on the boat deck.

I greeted him and sat beside him at the counter. The place

was empty.

‘Oh, hello, Mr. Sagar,’ he said, guardedly. We were
perched on stools and his pants leg had ridden up, revealing

white bandaging around his ankle.

‘I saw your father yesterday,’ 1 said, coming straight to
the point. ‘Jonathan, he’s lost his touch. 1 don’t know how
the exhibition’s going to shape up.’

‘Look, are you saying this is my fault?’

‘Well yes. You and he were close. He’s feeling damned
lonely— and his mobiles depended on happiness. How can

hecreate joy out of misery?’ .

1 had gone too far. Jonathan was frowning. Oh, tor Ooh s
sake, Mr. Sagar. You’re overstating the case. You’re as
sentimental as he is. If he expects me to run out on Canoca
right now, he’s a poor judge of character. She s been a good
friend to me, and she’s financing my share of the exhibi-

tion.’

He eulped down his coffee and was gone.

My thoughts turned to Hector last night, sitting among
those mobiles, adjusting an arm here, a reflector there,
while the slithe in my arms remained obstinately brown.
After a drink or two I had left him there and let myself out;
the light was on in the shack which had been Jonathan s
studio. I opened the door to switch it off and saw a small
mobile on the bench. It couldn’t have been more than a foot
high: it was an intricate thing and, in its present immobil-
ity, quite interesting. 1 wondered what it was doing here; I
recognised Hector’s style clearly, but why hadn t he shown

it to me?

27

I became inquisitive, and switched the thing on.

The music was almost inaudible but it sent a thrill of
unease down my spine. I had switched the lights off; the
mobile glowed abruptly, sharp bursts of muted colour, reds
and browns and greys and cold, cold blue. Tiny arms
gestured with spiderish menace and the whole thing seemed
to sidle towards me as though seeking a companion in ugli-
ness and misery. I found I was leaning towards it and there
was a sob in my throat. The slithe twisted desperately in
my arms, squealing, and broke the spell as it leaped to the
floor and disappeared into the night.

I switched the mobile off, closed the door and left, shiver-
ing.

For a few seconds I had looked into Hector Bartholo-
mew’s soul.

I have never been involved with an art exhibition before
and I was under a misapprehension when I arrived and
found a large crowd of people already milling around in the
foyer of the Princess Louise. A powerful man took my
ticket.

‘Isn’t it marvellous, darling!’ Carioca greeted me. She
was dressed entirely in white with the exception of long
slitheskin gloves which were glowing pink with pleasure.
She’d had an extensive face job and could have passed for
thirty-seven.

At that moment a harassed-looking Jonathan emerged
from behind the scenes and put us straight. The size of the
crowd means nothing,’ he said. The drinks are free.’ A
waiter passed near and I took a glass of something brown.
‘It’s not like the premiere of a movie,’ Jonathan continued.
‘The success of the exhibition is judged by the cash takings,
tonight. If people don’t buy now, while they’re hot, they
never will.’ He glanced around, looking even more worried.
‘They look a mean bunch of bastards.’

‘Nonsense, darling,’ trilled Carioca, smiling graciously at
someone.

I saw Doug Marshall with other members of the sling-
gliding club and drifted across. ‘I didn’t know you were
interested in this kind of thing,’ I said.

28

‘The club was sent a dozen tickets,’ he explained. ‘After
all the trouble we’ve had with Carioca Jones and her Foes
of bloody Bondage, the least we can do is to drink her
liquor.’ He seized a passing glass and downed it rapidly.

In the comer a group was producing strange music
composed, I imagined by Jonathan. There was no sign of
Hector Bartholomew.

‘What makes you think it’s Carioca’s liquor?’ I asked. ‘I
understood this was a joint Bartholomew venture. Expenses
are deducted from sales.’

‘Christ, Joe, can you imagine this affair showing a profit ?
They’ll be lucky if they sell a couple of items. This is
Louise, not one of your big mainland cities. Everyone’s here
for the drinks.’

Somebody jostled me; more people were crowding into
the foyer. Nearby, the balding Secretary of the sling-gliding
club was laughing raucously, head thrown back and false
teeth gleaming in the flickering lights. My eyes were smart-
ing; a lot of people were smoking and the ventilation was
poor. I began to wish I hadn’t come. I consumed another
drink quickly, trying to get in the mood.

Miranda Marshbanks was clutching my arm. ‘Can’t think
why I came, the whole thing is so tasteless. But what can
you expect from a person like Carioca Jones? It’s only for
the Bartholomews’ sake that I’m here.’

‘I’m sure they’ll be pleased,’ I murmured, edging away.

Later I found a vantage point apinst the oak-panelled
wall and leaned there, next to a waiter with a full tray. He
met my eye and smiled slightly, uniting us against the mob.

Thei^ suddenly Hector Bartholomew was standing by the
double doors; he and Jonathan conversed briefly with no
trace of expression on their faces while Carioca Jones
looked brightly around and the roar of the crowd became
muted. The doors were flung open. The exhibition was on.

The entire Princess Louise had been rented for the night;
not because the exhibition needed the space, but in order to
keep the undesirables out. As we surged along the steel cor-
ridors with the quaint cream-painted pipes overhead, I
remembered noticing strong men at the entrance; the bars

29

were closed and deserted, the restaurant tables laid for non-
existent customers. We entered the First-class Lounge and a
kaleidoscope of flickering colour.

As I had expected, the exhibition was divided into two
halves; the port being Jonathan’s contribution and the star-
board Hector’s. The mobiles were arrayed against the two
opposite walls like trophies, backed by plain black velvet.
Each mobile was separated from its neighbour, being en-
closed in a large rectangular box which widened towards
the viewer like a square trumpet or a huge visiphone
booth — so that you saw the mobile of your choice at the
end of a tapering tunnel and received the full effect of flash-
ing lights and eerie sound without being distracted by the
mobile next door.

I watched the nearest of Jonathan’s. Despite Miranda
Marshbanks and three drunken glider pilots at my elbow, I
was impressed by its power. Jonathan appeared to have
found a new dimension in which to work; notwithstanding
Hector’s comments as to the strangeness of Jonathan’s art, I
was beginning to see what the boy was getting at. He had
cast aside the traditional notion that a mobile should be
pleasant — ^without going to the opposite extreme and incit-
ing sorrow or fear. As 1 watched the glowing thing at the
end of the tunnel, as I watched orbs revolve like suns,
helices expand into starbursts and reform miraculously in
the midst of blackness while dissonant chords surprised my
ears, I felt uplifted.

There was something spiritual about Jonathan’s work. It
was inspired and inspiring, and despite the drinks I felt a
better man for watching it. Beside me the drunks had fallen
silent, Miranda Marshbanks’ whinnying had ceased.
‘Hey . . .’ whispered Doug Marshall. ‘D’you know what I
wanna do, Joe? I wanna go and do something good, for a
change. D’you feel it? Or is it just me?’

I walked over to where Jonathan stood silently. On the
way I passed other mobiles; they were all different, but
they were all good and they all possessed that indefinable
something. ‘Congratulations,’ I said. ‘I underestimated you,
Jonathan. Who designed the background decor, by the
way?’

30

‘Carioca.’ There was a look of boyish guilt on his face as
he glanced towards her. ‘I had to let her do something, he
said, confidentially. Our recent difference of opinion was
forgotten.

I wondered about the relationship between him and the 3 -
V star. Of one thing I was sure — Carioca had never inspired
him to these heights. The mobiles had come from within
himself. If he had led Carioca Jones to believe he was fond
of her, then he was taking her for a ride. I watched her as
she strutted proudly up and down the line of exhibits, smil-
ing at people, accepting their congratulations ... I tried not
to think badly of Jonathan; after all, Carioca was having
her fun, even if it was costing her a small fortune. In due
course Jonathan would leave her; but I could feel no sym-
pathy. She asked for all she got. And as for Jonathan— he
would receive the acclaim he deserved, all the advertise-
ment he needed, for the small price of living in Carioca’s
house.

And breaking his father’s heart ...

The pattern of the exhibition had become plain now, and
over a hundred people crowded around Jonathan s mobiles
while, at the other end of the hall. Hector stood almost
alone. I approached him; he had a haunted look.

‘I was wrong,’ he muttered. ‘I was wrong. They’re good.
Just look at all those people. He’ll sell every one.’ His eyes
met mine, then shifted away again. ‘I’m glad about that, for
his sake. But I don’t understand it.’ He stared at Carioca
with unconcealed hatred. ‘I’ll never understand it, never.

I know, now, that I ought to have told him; but I didn t
have the courage. In telling Hector that Jonathan had no
feeling for Carioca, I would at the same time be telling him
that his son was a gold-digger, a gigolo. I couldn’t do that. I
thought I knew Hector— and I thought he’d rather his son
were stupid and honest, than clever and crooked. Instead I
said, ‘There’s a lot of intellect in Jonathan’s mobiles, a lot of
dynamism. They’re idealistic, a young man’s creation. But
the emotions they arouse are a little lacking in simple
pleasure.’

He smiled ruefully. ‘Thanks, Joe. But they’re all you say,
and more. And it’s not just because I’m his father that I m

31

saying that. I wish Vd seen it before; but you know how
stubborn an old fool can be, always thinking the old way is
the right way. 1 think I might have stifled him in the past.
Tonight, Fm proud of him. My only regret is that Carioca
Jones has been instrumental in the whole thing.’ He sighed,
and waved his hand towards the handful of sjpectators at
his end of the hall. ‘And look at my damned things. There’s
not much simple pleasure in those, is there? There’s not
much of anything, if you’ll be honest.’ And he was right.

And so the weary evening wore on. When at last the
crowd was gone, the four of us stood in the empty room
among the cigarette butts and broken glass : Jonathan and
Carioca at one end. Hector and I at the other, putting the
mobiles in boxes. Glancing across at the enemy camp, 1
noticed Carioca’s face was surprisingly grim. Her eyes kept
flickering towards Hector as she banged the boxes about in
pent-up fashion. Jonathan worked on carefully, dismantling
the more delicate pieces, wrapping the parts in cotton
wool.

Suddenly Carioca was striding across the floor towards
us, glass crunching beneath her imperious tread. She stop-
ped in front of Hector, hands on her hips.

‘Well, just what have you got to say for yourself?’

‘Eh?’

‘You know perfectly well what I’m talking about. What
excuse have you got for this . . .’ she waved a hand at
Hector’s mobiles, ‘this apology for a display ? This exhibi-
tion cost me a small fortune and what do you do? You
show this junk. There’s not an honest emotion in any single
piece ! You’re an old fraud. My God, 1 ought to sue you !’

‘Take it easy, Carioca,’ 1 said. ‘The show’s over now, and
Jonathan did well.’

‘But that’s just the point!’ she shrilled. ‘He didn't. He
didn’t sell one single solitary piece — and no wonder! The
place is so full of garbage that people laughed! They all
said Jonathan’s creations were wonderful, of course, but
they wouldn’t buy, because this old fool dragged down the
whole tone of the exhibition! He turned it into a cheap
bazaar ! ’

Eventually she became aware that Jonathan had carried

32

out the last of the boxes and showed no sign of returning,
then at last she stormed off. Hector looked at me, stricken.
‘How can my son live with that?’ he whispered.

Four

Following the exhibition, it was apparent to most of us
that the liaison between Jonathan and Carioca would
shortly be ended— although nobody could have anticipated
the fairy-tale manner in which this would occur. 1 saw
Carioca once or twice in the next few days and she men-
tioned, several times, that she had lost a considerable
amount of money in the venture. She also said that
Jonathan had sold a few mobiles as a result of the publicity;

I didn’t like to ask if their business arrangement covered

such contingencies. ^ j » •

One very significant thing she said. In a few days time
she was going to collect Wilberforce the land shark from

Miranda Marshbanks ... ^

I visited Hector one day and found him sunk m gloom;
since his failure at the exhibition he had become more of a
recluse than ever. He took some time answering the door
and when at last 1 got inside the house, 1 found the mobiles
still in their cardboard boxes. He hadn t had the heart to
unpack. I tried to cheer him up by telling him about
Carioca’s significant decision. He brightened a little.

‘You say Jonathan hates the brute? That figures. He

never did like fish.’

He glanced towards Jonathan’s shack; and 1 knew what
he had been doing these past few weeks. Immersed in self-
pity, he was nevertheless too compulsive an artist to aban-
don his work entirely. So he had worked in the studio of his
lost son, pouring the genius of his despair into one single,
terrible mobile— the small monstrosity I had seen the other
night. A brilliant work, but unsaleable . . . ‘When does that

woman collect the shark?’ he asked.

‘Tuesday . . . Look, Hector. Don’t read too much into

it . . .’

I saw Jonathan on the sea wall later that day, hot and

33

furious as he struggled beneath Carioca’s jacked-up hover-
car trying to fix some obscure fault. Carioca stood looking
down at his twitching legs. ‘You poor dear/ she was saying.

I paused. ‘Whafs the trouble?'

‘Joe, it's too frustrating. Three times I've had it fixed and
the same thing happens. Without warning, the wretched
car starts to plunge about like a dolphin. It's too frighten-
ing. Really, 1 suspect the garage sabotages it deliberately, to
make work for themselves.'

‘Leave it here. I'll give you a ride back, then I can send
Dave Froehlich to take a look at it.'

Jonathan extricated himself gratefully and Carioca, with
a display of girlish playfulness which 1 found nauseating,
hauled him to his feet. Then, instead of climbing straight
into my car, she fawned over him for a few minutes,
straightening his tie, brushing dirt from his jacket, licking
her handkerchief and dabbing at a patch of oil on his cheek.
Jonathan took it all stoically.

It wasn't until 1 was driving them away that I discovered
the motive behind all this wifeliness. Watching it from his
seat on an upturned dinghy was Hector Bartholomew.

We all have our motives, and my motive in making
myself pleasant to Carioca Jones has always been the ex-
pectation of future profits. She is well acquainted with the
wealthier element on the Peninsula and is in the habit of
sending me good customers for my various slitheskin pro-
ducts — ^which are not cheap. That was how 1 let myself in
for the job of having her car fixed, which proved to be
more complicated than expected. On Tuesday it was still
sitting in my yard — Dave having towed it there — awaiting
a spare set of primary blades from the manufacturer.

So, on the Tuesday morning, 1 drove Carioca and
Jonathan to the kennels. We arrived just after ten.

‘Oh . . .' said Carioca.

Hector Bartholomew was there, chatting to Miranda
Marshbanks and Rosalie. He held a box and 1 assumed that
his excuse for calling was to collect her mobile for tuning.
Rosalie saw us; her ey,es remained on Jonathan and I felt

34

pretty sick as the lad walked across the grass with Carioca
hanging on to him. 1 followed uncertainly.

Miranda Marshbanks came trotting towards us and
Rosalie resumed her work; there were a large number of
land sharks in the arena today. Hector remained standing
irresolutely on the far side behind the row of kennels, a

lonely figure.

‘Hello, Carioca dear,' gushed Miss Marshbanks. ‘So nice to
see you ... And Jonathan Bartholomew, quite a stranger
these days. I haven't had a chance to tell you what 1
thought of your enormously successful exhibition last
week. Well, well . . She let it hang there, so we never did
learn what she thought of the exhibition.

Carioca's jaw was set. ‘Thank you, darling. I'm so glad
you liked it; one gets so few cultural events on the Penin-
sula, it's such a pity. So many of us talk about art, it was
really a pleasure to do something about it. But we must run,
Joe was so kind to bring us and we can't hold him up. So

fetch Wilberforce, will you?'

‘Rosalie ! ' called Miranda. The girl nodded and made for
a kennel on the far side; through the bars 1 saw the sinister
shape of Wilberforce. Miranda prattled on and 1 watched
the girl. She seemed to be having trouble with the latch; the
shark was rattling the bars. Hector hovered near and 1 think
we all sensed something was wrong as we leaned against
the fencing and looked across the width of the arena.

Then the grille swung open and Wilberforce bounded out
with jaws agape. Rosalie, stepping back, stumbled and went
down; the shark was upon her instantly, a black thrashing
devil tearing at the pale flesh of her leg. She stumbled to her
feet, kicking, but the shark held on. Blood splattered,
sprayed across the grass as the shark shook its flat head; and
Rosalie was down again.

Someone was screaming. Miranda Marshbanks threw
open a gate and we ran into the arena; Miranda carried

some kind of rifle.

Before we could reach the struggling forms something
even more terrible happened, something 1 had read about
but never seen. Something which reminded us all what we
tend to forget; that the only factor which distinguishes our

35

domestic pets from their wild counterparts is a tiny oxy-
genator and a veneer of training. From all over the arena
the land sharks came, scenting blood, converging on the
struggle, wriggling nearer like fat snakes. Wilberforce
thrashed, Rosalie tore herself momentarily free, and blood
spattered the nearest sharks. They sprang forward instantly.

Then they went into a feeding frenzy.

I heard Carioca screaming, saw her snatch the rifle from

the irresolute Miranda.

Rosalie was stumbling away, surrounded by sharks; at
least two hung from her leg as she swayed, dragging them
behind. All around her sharks fought one another, smooth
black skins livid with crimson gashes. Above the screaming
of the women and Jonathan’s urgent shouting I could hear
the terrible slobbering and gulping of the sharks as they
consumed one another voraciously. Wilberforce was on his
back, some distance from Rosalie now; the centre of the
second group of sharks who fought over his weakening
body and tore at his belly and at one another.

And it was towards this second group that Carioca ran,

holding the gun ...

‘Let him go, you bastards! Let him go!’ she screamed
uselessly; and she had wasted a couple of shots into the
melee before Jonathan reached her and seized the gun. She
hung on. ‘What are you trying to do, you fooi?’ she

shouted.

‘They’ve got Rosalie ! ’

Carioca jerked at the rifle. ‘But she’s only a . . . Her
mouth shut suddenly and she seemed to collapse within
herself, and she looked older, older even than her years.
Jonathan took the rifle and ran to Rosalie.

I was beside Carioca, kicking the fish aside as I assisted
her from the arena. I heard the rifle crack several times.
Carioca slump)ed to the grass outside the fence; she had a
deep cut on one leg. I found a stick and ran to help Miranda
Marshbanks, who was thrusting at the fighting sharks with a
garden fork, trying to separate them. Jonathan passed me,
carrying the inert form of Rosalie. His face was blank as he
handed me the gun.

A sudden revulsion overcame me and I put two shots into

36

a barracuda which was watching me harmlessly from
under a bush. The fish were quietening^down now; Wilber-
force lay motionlessly and a row of sharks fed peacefully
on his entrails like sucking pigs. Miranda stumbled past me,
making for the gate; I followed. She was sobbing noisily
and 1 wondered if she was insured against this sort of
occurrence.

Jonathan was kneeling beside Rosalie on the grass, his
arm under her shoulders, supporting her head with his
other hand. She was conscious, and although her face was
white with pain and loss of blood, 1 saw her smile before
she fainted and went limp. I ran to the house and the
ambulopter touched down within five minutes. Jonathan
accompanied Rosalie to the hospital.

The fairy-tale aspect didn’t strike me until later in the
week when I caught sight of Jonathan and Rosalie walking
along the sea-wall one evening; she was limping slightly and
he had his arm around her, bending towards her solici-
tously. They didn’t even see me as they passed. I met
Rosalie alone the next day and she told me Jonathan was
living with his father again — and in a few days Rosalie
would move in there too, just as soon as her sentence was
up. Then she would marry Jonathan, the prince who had
saved her from the dragon Wilberforce. Hector Bartholo-
mew’s flair for happiness mobiles had returned simultane-
ously with Jonathan, she told me proudly . . .

Yesterday the mailman brought me a mobile, a present
from Hector.

Carioca Jones came to see me this morning. The wicked
queen was recovering well from the loss of her protege and
her pet, and was talking gaily of suing Miranda Marsh-
banks. She wanted me as a witness to the carnage at the
kennels. I showed her the mobile, switched it on and she
was entranced. She remained silent, enraptured, for all of
five minutes while the machine dispensed its Bartholomew
brand of sentimental delight in sound and colour.

‘Well ! ’ she gasped as we went outside again. ‘That was
incredible, Joe. Of course, poor Hector was so crabby be-
fore, no wonder his mobiles were no good. Much better

37

now that Jonathan is living there again. Dear Jonathan . . .
He*s quite an inspiration.' She glanced at me, then looked
away again. ‘Maybe everything's worked out for the best.
Er . . . Perhaps it's better to forget the whole affair, eh, Joe?
Forget about Miranda. 1 won't sue.'

Happily ever after. The emotion mobile had done its
work, as I'd known it would.

It wouldn't work for me, of course. 1 went into the house
and it was still flashing and winking and whining there, and
I kept seeing in it the face of a poor terrified girl, so I
switched it off. It gave me the creeps. I'm glad Carioca
didn't want me as a witness.

I wouldn't like to have to explain how I saw dear old
Hector Bartholomew, shrewd judge of human nature, stand
behind the cage and frighten the land shark into despera-
tion so that it would attack the no-account S.P. girl when
she opened the trap. So that the land sharks would go into a
feeding frenzy and Carioca — that poor stupid bastard of a
woman — ^would inevitably do the wrong thing . . .

It takes a judge of nature to work all that out; a clever
designer, a man who can weave dreams from metal and
glass and paint, a calculating artist who knows how to
juggle the emotions. A fast worker too; but just for an
instant I'd recognised that dreadful, sinister little mobile as
he retrieved it from the rear of Wilberforce's cage and
slipped it back into the box . . .

Conceived in sorrow and desperation, that mobile had
been instrumental in bringing happiness back to Hector
Bartholomew. And if that's not a fairy-tale ending I don't
know what is.

38

THE DAY THEY CUT OFF THE POWER

by

Vera Johnson

This story should strike responsive chords in the
minds of a good percentage of the readers of New
Writings in SF and appeal to them on a very personal
basis. The effect of the story on many other readers
will I fancy, produce something a little stronger than
a polite lifting of the eyebrows. And, if the future as
portrayed by Vera Johnson is horrific, then the re-
action to that future, also portrayed, indicates that
even horror can be faced and met and overcome.

THE DAY THEY CUT OFF THE POWER

I GOT a lift from Geneva to London with Arnold Travers.
Five of us sardined into his 1998 Yamaha. Twelve years had
crimped the fenders, chipped the chrome, wrecked the
shock absorbers. Still, it ran.

They stopped us as we started into the extension chunnel.
Special chunnel traffic pollies. Chupos, for short. Blowing
whistles and holding up white-gloved hands. Officious.

Arnold pressed a button and his window slid down.
‘What’s the trouble?’ he asked. I was in the back, in the
middle. I slouched down so the chupo wouldn’t notice me.
Pollies make me nervous. Any pollies, even chupos. Ever
since the Paris demo in 2008 when the fleeks came at me
with clubs.

‘Accident up ahead,’ the chupo said. A French accent.
That made me even more nervous. France has the worst
state pollies. France, then Spain, then Italy, then Greece.
That’s what they say, anyway. The roberts are the only
others I’ve come up against and they’re not nearly as bad as
the fleeks. ‘We’ll let you know when it’s cleared.’

So we had to wait an hour while they dragged away the
broken cars and bodies. We didn’t mind. It gave us a
chance to talk quietly instead of shouting down the motor.

Arnold held a package towards me, saying, ‘Cigarette,
Brian?’ I was surprised. And disgusted. I guess my face
showed it because he started laughing. I grabbed the j)ack-
age. Sure enough, they were fakes, made of chocolate. But
authentic-looking, the brand my old lady smoked. Lung-
rotters, we called them. Nobody under twenty was stupid
enough to use them. Most of us had tried a water-pipe once
or twice, but that was different. And we soon learned there

41

were easier ways to enjoy the herb. In stews. Or fudge or
cookies. At the tobacco shops they gave away free cigarette
papers with every purchase of cannabis, but the only thing
we ever used them for was to blow music through a
comb.

I took out two cigarettes and gave Arnold the package.

‘Hey, these are expensive,’ he complained.

I smiled. ‘Well, you offered them.’ I ripped off the paper
and stuck them in my mouth. We all laughed at his rueful
expression.

I didn’t know Arnold very well. Or the rest of them, for
that matter. They were younger than I. Maybe sixteen or
seventeen. All hyper over their first SFD convention. Not
like me, an old pro. Eighteen. Chairman of Students for
Democracy at Essex University.

This was my third year as a delegate, and the most excit-
ing. The exciting bits didn’t get into the papers. We had
seen to that, barring the press from the crucial sessions. But
they would find out before long. As soon as the Easter vaca-
tion was over.

We talked about the convention. The speeches, the de-
bates. The people.

‘I like that Greek girl who spoke just before you did
yesterday,’ Arnold said. ‘A real brain.’

‘Yeah,’ said Timothy. ‘Nice teeters too.’

Jasper agreed. ‘Bouncy,’ he said.

They were pretty juvenile. I laughed, just to be polite.
And after a while the cars started moving. The chupo
pointed a white baton at us. Meaning get going.

We came out of the chunnel into the late afternoon
traffic. Nightmare of speeding cars, fumes, blaring horns.
Everybody in England must have gone to the continent for
the Easter weekend. Now they were all frantic to get home.
Looking at the cars threatening to ram us as they changed
lanes, I remembered that somebody in Geneva had told me
about an organisation called the New Luddites. I asked
Arnold if he had heard of them.

He hadn’t. ‘Are they like the old Luddites, out to smash
machines?’

‘Not all machines. Just automobiles and aeroplanes.’

42

We had to agree they were on the right track. Every day
the Minister of Pollution announced deaths from emphy-
sema bronchitis and other diseases affected by air pollution
in the London area. Every day the figure was higher.

Only once had it gone down. That was after they set up
the proscribed zones. No private vehicles allowed, only
buses and taxis. For two weeks there were fewer deaths
each day. Then the total started climbing again.

‘I don’t suppose they’ll get anywhere, a small group like
that,’ I said. ‘But it must be a good feeling to take direct

action.’ . . 1. j

Brmm-pow! Automobiles spewing nuts and bolts and

twisted metal all over the road. And a few last feeble

fumes. Curling upwards. Like incense, towards heaven. I

could just see it.

‘Maybe I ought to get rid of the car right now,’ Arnold
said. ‘We could walk the rest of the way.’

He started to slow down. We knew he was just pranking
around but we shouted protests. He laughed and speeded up
again.

Arnold lived at Stepney, which was in a prozone, so he
had to use a garage at Plaistow. That’s where we separated.

I caught the tube, switched to the Northern Line at Charing
Cross and got to Tooting Bee by eleven.

Mom and Dad were watching holovision, as usual.
Glasses of beer beside them. Dad puffing away on a pipe.
She had a lungrotter dangling from her lip, a long ash ready
to fall. Air heavy with acrid smoke.

‘Hello, Brian,’ said Dad. ‘Had a good conference, did

you?’

‘Yes, thank you.’ I headed for the bedroom.

‘Well, don’t forget to let me know when the revolution’s
going to start. I’d hate to miss it.’

I slammed the door behind me. But that was stupid. He
didn’t mean any harm. He just liked a joke. I opened it
again and said, ‘Sorry. My hand slipped.’

They didn’t even hear me. Looking into the holly screen I
saw a man stumbling across a dusty desert while ominous
music sounded. Oboes, I think. Mother was right there with
him. Thirst clawing at her throat. She reached for her glass

43

of beer. I carried the phone into my room and shut the
door. Gently, this time.

Benjy first. ‘Sorry to be phoning so late but Tve got to
report to the executive tomorrow.*

Six o’clock at night, we decided. The usual place. We
didn’t mention the name. You could never tell when the
roberts would start bugging the line.

I called the others. Jennifer, Nalan, Vic. Each of them
would phone one other. All of us except one lived in

London. Luckily. Dru would have to come from Wolver-
hampton.

I was in bed by midnight, but not asleep. Too much on
my mind. This time SFD was going to hit the establishment
hard. Oh, we had done it before. In 1993 McGill, 2003 in
Cambridge, 2006 at Berkeley. And 2008 in Paris. (Only
there they hit us harder.) But these were isolated incidents.
Small-scale. This time every college in the United States of
Europe was involved. And with us setting the example, it
could spread even farther.

For five years the cost of living had been going up up up.
We pleaded for increases in the student stipends. We
threatened. We demanded. The stipends stayed the same.
Just like the old-age pension.

But the.e was a difference. We weren’t old and battered
by life. We had strength and energy. We weren’t going to
let them push us around.

The Bandolier was a restaurant in a prozone, not far
from Euston. I enjoyed the walk from the station. No traffic
to worry about, just the odd bus or taxi. Inside it was
murky. Guttering candles in wine bottles. Old guns and
swords, old musical instruments nailed or hung or glued to
walls and ceiling.

Behind the counter. Poppa Dupree. A rebel, like us, but
from another generation. An American who could never go
back to Chicago. They had lifted his passport.

He was a big man. And black. Something like Grandpa
Paine, my dad’s father, only younger. Grandpa Paine had
been a bus driver in Leeds. When he married a red-haired
Bradford girl, the families on both sides were upset. Old-

44

fashioned racial prejudice— a bunch of nonsense, but there
was Still some of it around.

Grandpa had raised my dad to be a good boy. go to
rhurch every Sunday, work hard, keep yourself respectable.
Don’t get into trouble. Poppa Dupree looked like my grand-
father but inside he was different. Don’t take any dirt, he
told us You can turn this world inside out. You got the
power. You have to know you got the power and you have

to learn how to use it. * j i. »

I believed him. 1 believed we had the power. And that s

what 1 told them when we were sitting at the long table in

the comer. In the gloom. Leaning forward and looking into

the half-shadowed faces.

‘No more waiting,’ I told them. ‘The first day of the new
term, we’re taking over. Occupy the administration build-
in? the lecture rooms, the works. Every university and
college in the whole United States of Europe. And we’re not
moving until they increase the stipends.’

Everybody else was silent. Half-smiling. They could see i
happening. There weren’t enough pollies in the whole U. S.

of E. to stop us. We had the power. , c »

Then came the questions. Where would we meet the first
morning of the new term? What time? Who would phone
all the SFD members ? How many did we need to take oyer
Admin? Some of us would go back to Wivenhoe a day
early, we decided, and meet returning students at the

station or the parking lot.

I was busy the next couple of days. Making phone calls.
Rushing all over London to tell people things I didn t want o
say over the phone. Drafting a manifesto that we cou
off on the Multex machine once we’d taken over the office.

Then it was Thursday morning. The postman brought me
a little printed card. From British Rail, Southern Region.
They were holding a parcel for me at Balham station.
Would I please come and collect it.

It was a small mystery and I was impatient, bu^ with
other things and wanting to brush it aside. But what the
hell. It wouldn’t take me more than ten minutes to walk
over. And the weather was good. Hawthorns in bloom.

45

warm spring smell in the air. But this wasn’t a prozone.
Christ no. If it weren’t for the traffic lights I would never
have been able to cross Balham High Road.

At the station a man led me to the left luggage office
‘Here we are.’

I stared at the trunk he indicated. My trunk. Which I had
left at the university, stored in the basement, empty. I
hefted it. It wasn t empty now. I found the little key on my
ring and turned it in the lock. Inside was everything I had
left in my room. Clothes. Books. Letters. Records. Some-
body had cleaned out my room. Some stranger picking over
my personal belongings, reading my mail.

‘Do you want me to give you a hand with this?’

I didn’t hear him at first. Still staring. Voices in my head
clamouring who? who? who? And why? They were still
clamouring when the cab-driver helped me ease the trunk
into the elevator and when I manhandled it down the hall-
way of our apartment.

‘What on earth?’ said Mother.

I don t know,’ I said. ‘I can’t even guess.’

I phoned the university but there was no answer. Where
should I try next ? While I was wondering, the phone rang.
It was Benjy. All his things had been returned. We checked
with the other executive members. It had happened to all

of them. Jennifer and Nalan and Vic and Owen and Mac
and Irving and Dru.

Maybe they were tiying to get rid of all SFD members. I
hoped so, knowing the other students would rally to sup-
port us. We phoned a few members who were not on the
executive. Yes, their stuff had been sent to them.

For a few minutes I convinced myself this was what had
happened. I was already gloating over the hundreds of new
members we would gain. Then Jennifer had the bright idea
of calling some students who didn’t belong to the SFD,
Their belongings had been returned too.

Well, somebody must know what’s happened.’ I was
shouting at Jennifer. Angry. As if she was responsible. ‘I’ll
phone the Ministry of Education.’

When I finally got through to them a woman said they

46

were very sorry. Nobody there could give me the informa-
tion I wanted.

‘You’re sorry ! What do you think I am ? I was ready to
explode. More frustrated than angry. As if I was punching a
bag that kept turning to marshmallows. I thought of the
New Luddites. At least they Imew what and where the

enemy was. They could attack it. ^ ^

It was Jennifer who suggested I call Mr. Kyriacou. He
should know what’s happening,’ she said. ‘And you’re one

of his favourites.’

I thought it would be easy to find him in the directory,
but there was a whole column of Kyriacous called John or
J. I tried them all. Well, not quite all. He was third from the

bottom.

‘Mr. Kyriacou ? This is Brian Hepple.’

‘Hello, Brian.’ He had never lost his Greek accent. Even
though he had left the country long before it joined the
U.S.E. He was an old man now, at least forty. But he was
different from most people. More like Poppa Dupree.
‘What can I do for you?’

I explained what had happened and asked if he knew the
reason. Long pause. Very long pause. Then a sigh.

‘I do, Brian, but I’m afraid I can’t tell you. Not until
tomorrow.’ He wouldn’t. No matter how I pleaded. ‘Sorry,
Brian, but it’s not my secret. You’ll know soon enough.
Can’t you wait?’

I couldn’t. I phoned the others and told them what he
had said. Then I tried to get interested in holovision or a
book. Nothing worked. I kept wandering in and out of
rooms, restless. Driving Mother batty. Even Dad started to
get nervous. He came home for lunch wearing his Elec-
tricity Board uniform. (He used to be a meter reader, but
since they connected all the meters to a central computer
five years earlier, all he did was collect tokens from the
coin-in-the-slot meters.) 1 was pacing up and down.

Tou remind me of somebody,' he said. Phoney look of
concentration. Pretending he was trying to remember. I
knew a joke was coming. ‘Ah, I have it. The lion at Regent s

Park Zoo.'

47

He could see I didn't think it was funny.

‘Why don’t you take a run down to Wivenhoe?’ he said.
‘I’ll give you the train fare.’

So I went. The journey I’d made so many times before.
To Colchester first, then Wivenhoe. Not knowing what I’d
find at the end. A moist day. Not raining, but the sky was
heavy.

I thought about Mr. Kyriacou and wondered why he had
refused to tell me. He taught us p)olitical science, infusing us
with his own enthusiasm, his own anger and passion. We
left his lectures drunk on the glory of heroes who had been
dead for decades or centuries. Weeping for martyrs.

I had belonged to the SFD for two years before I ever met
Mr. Kyriacou. But he was the one who really convinced me
you can change things. The world was so overcrowded, so
polluted, so depleted of resources that there didn’t seem to

be much hope for humanity. A lot of older people had just
given up.

But not the SFD. We believed in a kind of socialism that
had never yet been tried. Anywhere. Not the dogmatism of
the splinter socialist groups. Not the lukewarm timidity of
the Labour Party. We believed in something bigger than
that. All part of one big family. Each entitled to his share of
food. And clothes. And a job. And the right to do and say
whatever he wanted, as long as he didn’t hurt anybody.

I took a taxi to the university. People swarmed over the
grounds. Surveyors peering through instruments as if they
were taking pictures. Men unloading lumber. Bricks. Bags
of cement. An enormous digging machine sinking its teeth
into the lawn. People looking at blueprints. I passed them,
walked into the building where I lived. Up the stairs to my
room.

The door was locked. I tried my key but it didn’t work.
They had changed the lock. That was when I realised some-
thing final had happened. Something irreversible. I knocked.
A strange woman with a baby in her arms. ‘Yes?’

I couldn t say : ‘W^hat the hell are you doing in my
room?’ I said I was looking for a Mr. Anderson. (That was
my next door neighbour, another SFD member.)

48

‘Sorry, I never heard of him. I just moved in the day

before yesterday.’

‘Are you a student?’

She frowned. ‘Do I look like a student?’

‘Well, could you tell me how you happened to move

here?’

She didn’t answer for a moment. Thinking it was none of
my business. Then she shrugged. ‘The Council arranged it. I
was squatting in Camden Town. Then they told me I could
have a place here.’

It was a dismal trip back to London and dark by the time
I arrived. This time I didn’t phone Mr. Kyriacou. I went
around to his home. One of a row of terraced houses. (Like
my dad used to say, ‘semi-detached on both sides’.)

He frowned when he saw me. ‘You shouldn’t have come.’
Still, he asked me in, poured me a glass of sherry.

I told him what I’d seen. ‘It’s crazy,’ I said. ‘If the school’s
closing down, where are they going to send us? And why
does it have to be such a big secret ? ’

‘So you won’t have a chance to protest and stop it, I
guess,’ he said. ‘I might as well tell you now. All the schools
are closing down.’

I couldn’t believe it. ‘All the schools? All the schools in
England?’

‘Not just England. The whole U.S.E.’

‘But what — ^but how ?’

He told me. It would be something like the Open Univer-
sity. All the students sitting at home and watching lessons
on old-fashioned TV sets provided by the Ministry of Educa-
tion. Only you wouldn’t have to stick with any one class or
grade. Watch whatever programmes interested you,
write exams whenever you felt ready for them. A revolu-
tionary experiment in education.

Then he went on. ‘And it will solve all our economic
problems. No more housing shortage — all the buildings will
be turned into apartments. Except the nursery schools.
They will stay the same. High-rises will be built on the
grounds. No more unemployment. Everybody will be busy
in construction or making TV sets and ear-plugs or produc-
ing programmes.’

49

Mr. Kyriacou talking like this. Phoney bureaucratic pro-
paganda. I wanted to call him fink ! traitor ! But I felt too
sick to say anything.

Then he laughed.

‘Don’t look so worried. I’m just telling you what the
official line is. You don’t have to swallow it.’

That made it even worse. Knowing what they were doing
to us, he laughed.

‘You know the real reason,’ I shouted. ‘This is one more
way to split us up, divide us. We’re too radical for them.
Too committed. And what good will it do to build a few
more houses? You know it’s the whole foundation of
society that’s rotten. You should have warned us so we
could stop them with sit-ins.’

I wasn’t feeling sick any more. Just mad.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I thought about it. But I decided to let the
system go ahead and dig its own grave.’

Maybe he could have explained that to me, but I didn’t
give him a chance. I was still angry when I left. How were
we going to keep the SFD alive? All of us huddled in
separate little cells. No school registers to put us in touch
with potential members. No common rooms where we
could hold meetings. It looked as if we were finished.

I kicked at a lamp-post. Then I had to grit my teeth until
the pain subsided. When it did, I realised I was being stupid.
What I should be doing was thinking of how we were
going to cope with the new situation.

Where were we going to find new members ? Out in the
streets, that was where. They wouldn’t be spending all their
time huddled over the box. They would be visiting the
parks. The pubs. The theatres. The book stores. And we’d be
there too, handing out newsletters advertising meetings or
asking them to get in touch with us. If we didn’t have
common rooms to gather in, we’d meet outside. Hyde Park.

Trafalgar Square. We could use telephone chains to keep in
touch.

I thought of watching Mr. Kyriacou on a TV screen and I
remembered what he had said — ‘let the system dig its own
grave.’

I began to realise the possibilities. In two years — maybe

50

less, if we worked hard — some of us could be qualified
teachers ourselves, reaching hundreds of thousands with
our ideas instead of just the handful in a classroom.

I almost laughed out loud, thinking what a mistake they
had made. They weren’t cutting off the power. They were
putting it in our hands. I couldn’t wait to tell the others.

And thinking of all the work that had to be done, I
started to run. There was no time to waste.

51

I

i

/

/

I

9

A TIME OF MIND

by

Keith Wells

Changing a habit of thought that has hardened over
the years is notoriously difficult to accomplish, and
the result can be exceedingly painful. When Jako had-
thought his way through all the verses, it must have
been very clear to him that no different result would
have been obtained had he chosen the OBVERSE . . .

I

i

A TIME OF MIND

The outer structure of the Self is called Language
A network web of points in consciousness
Which may all be inhabited by the shapeless, formless
Light

Of which we are all a part."

‘Way out on the Edge like that, what else can we do?*

‘Why bother?*

‘Because we have to. Don*t ask me why. It must be done.
The Chairman stood up slowly, his heavy robes falling into
smooth lines. The Secretary backed away and stood beside
an astrolabe at the window.

‘All space,* he murmured softly, *all wide space and we
keep going on.*

‘The Chairman crossed to the window and looked out at
the first purple rays of their sun.

‘The Festival’s begun. Listen for the bellbirds.*

The Secretary pushed open the window and they listened
quietly until it came, the first flute soft notes of the bell-
birds — ^who never sang alone — their notes always in rip-
pling chimes from a thousand directions.

This is the most beautiful planet in the Multiverse,*
declared the Chairman. ‘Go and prepare for the Opening.

The Secretary bowed and left the room. As he walked
across the stone parapet from the Chairman’s Tower to the
Secretariat the full force of the bellbirds song pealed about
him, washing away all his fears of the Edge and centring
him in the beauty of the multiversal moment. All the bell-
birds rang and he was all of them. Being from a thousand

55

directions; and in each of them he felt the crowds stirring,
each bell chime containing a hundred thousand other aware-
nesses. A Multiverse.

The Festival of Maya Multos was the climax of the
Divine Year, the Rainbow Day. During the course of the
day, the light changed from purple to blue, green, yellow,
orange, red and then infra red. Each colour repeating twice
within the cycle. Noon, the period when the light went
from infra-red all the way over to ultra-violet was the most
sacred point in spacetime, and the sole reason for the choice

of Maya Multos as the site for the Administrative Centre of
the Galaxy.

As the Secretary entered the Great Hall he saw three or
four Allmen seated by the fire, only Jako was awake.

‘The others have the bellbird dream,^ he said, nodding to
his companions.

‘I have just had it too,* murmured the Secretary. ‘We*re
all of us pious.’ He grinned abruptly. ‘What do you want to
know, Jako?’

The Allman at the fireside smiled. ‘Who is going to
Monos?’

‘I can’t tell you that.’

‘Why do they have to go?’

‘No reason that I can tell you. At least not yet. The
Chairman will address the Duma.’

‘He’ll declare the Call.’

‘He has no choice.’

They fell silent.

The first Sesta or part of the Maymultine Day, the purple
Sesta, was spent entirely in song. The bellbirds began and
they were superseded at the Opening by the shimmering
tones of the organbirds which later gave way to the multi-
larks orgasmic soul song, the release of all feeling in the
soaring delight of its ecstacy. By then the sky had turned
from purple through blue and the p)eople prepared for the
green Sesta, the Sesta of Deliberation, the time of discussion
in the Duma.

A thousand delegates attended in person, though every

56

being in the multiverse partook of all events. The Chairman
sat in the bronze chair and began as soon as the bellbird
peal was sung.

‘I’ll be brief and frank with your Allness. Someone must
go to Monos. I Declare the Call.’

None of the delegates moved a muscle, but the Chair-
man’s mind was invaded and investigated by every mind in
the Hall. He felt as though mercury had been poured down
through his head and set solid in his jaw. Then they left as
One and he was among them again.

‘It’s true,’ said Jako, Speaker of the Duma. ‘He has the
Call. We can all see that — but what is the Call ? Why must
we always obey it?’

There were murmurs of agreement and discontent among
the delegates, but they quietened down when the Secretary
stepped forward and addressed them.

‘If we knew what Jako is asking we would be Masters of
the Multiverse ... as it is, we are only its Administrators.
We are totally determined beings. The Call is our con-
nection to Heaven. It is the thing in the Multiverse which is
singular. Only the Chairman has it, whoever he may be. It
shares no other quality with our existence. Only by obeying
can we ever hope to contact its source.’ There was much
applause.

Jako waited ’til the Secretary sat down before he an-
nounced a vote. The light board blazed green under the
green sky and the Chairman moved a formal vote of grace
to the Monos Volunteer.

As the members of the Duma filed silently out under the
green sunlight the Secretary plucked Jako’s sleeve and made
the ritual sign for Converse. Jako was surprised, for al-
though Converse was known and even common among the
citizens of Maya Multos, it was habitually used only be-
tween individuals and their pets, usually musical dogs with
whom Converse took the form of a duet. Otherwise, the
Multiversal populace lived, thought and acted as One. There
was nothing singular, everything existed as everything else.
Between people the only Converse was between the Chair-
man and his Secretary.

57

Jako returned the sign, two fingers held in a V and fol-
lowed the Secretary into a grove of Moulang trees, serene
and comforting in the rustling of their numberless leaves.
The Secretary led Jako to a stone bench beneath a spray of
Moulang branches.

‘We shall have green thoughts,’ laughed Jako, staring at
the emerald grasses. To his surprise the Secretary made the
sign of Secret Converse to the trees about them, and Jako
was forced to do likewise, extending both hands with V
fingers. At this ancient sign the Moulang trees withdrew
and the grasses and the bench until Jako and the Secretary

were in solitary Converse, the strangest place in the Multi-
verse.

^ I am sorry, said Jako, ’You must go into Converse often
with the Chairman. I’ve never been here before. It’s unreal,
nothing else exists here, just the two of us ! ’

‘Exactly,’ said the Secretary, unsmiling.

Jako took hold of himself. ‘There are many things in All,’
he said, and the Text pulled him back into the seriousness

of the situation. ‘Forgive me. What is it that you have to
tell me?’

The Secretary’s stern features cracked into a smile. ‘You
guessed already, you knew at once why I brought you here.
For the experience itself. To show you this place exists, the
Converse. He paused while Jako tried to grasp the signifi-
cance of this statement. ‘First the Multiverse — then here —
the Converse.’

And then . . . ?’ asked Jako in a breathless whisper, a rush
of horror at the possibilities.

‘Who knows?’ said the Secretary guardedly, and glanc-
ing at his gaunt face Jako realised for the first time that
there were things the Secretary knew which Jako did not.
The concept was unheard of. All knew All, because All
WERE All. Secrets were unknown where identity was in-
finitely interchangeable. But now, this place, where All
were only two, and yet somehow didn’t fit.

T don’t see through you,’ stammered Jako.

‘Nor I you,’ replied the Secretary, and at once Jako knew
it to be true. This Converse state was murky and obscure,
the Allness was reduced to twoness and somehow became

unclear. He looked deep into the Secretary’s eyes and the
Allness flowed again, and as his gaze deepened Jako came to
a place within the Secretary’s mind where he had never
been before. As he gazed he seemed to pass into the Chair-
man’s office; an empty chair, an astrolabe, a bare desk. In
an alcove the Chairman sat beside a beautiful woman, and
somehow Jako knew that although he couldn’t enter it, the
Chairman and the woman were also in a state of Converse
with each other. He knew also that the woman was the call
which was always sacred.

But he felt no awe or fear, just a calm acceptance until
he remembered the Secretary and remembering that he was
within his gaze, fell into confusion and seemed to hurtle
downward ’til he landed with a sudden start to find a
golden lotus growing on a beach in yellow sunlight. His
gaze shifted and he became aware of the Secretary’s eyes
again, remote, calm. Then the Secretary dissolved also
into a golden lotus glowing on a beach and out of the sea
came all the creatures of creation . . . molluscs and shell-
fish spreading into crabs and legs replacing suction pods
and the birth of sight and hearing ... the first dry touch
— the scurf and claw of battle, the huddle for warmth
. . . the tender young. And out of the six legged came
the four legged and out of the four legged came the
two legged, and pincer became claw, became hoof, paw
and hand . . . instinct grew into idea, then thought, brain
and mind and all became a field of golden lotuses glowing
on a beach.

When the vision had passed the Secretary said. ‘You will
volunteer for Monos. You’ll be transmitted at Noon. The
important thing is to keep contact. Think of the golden
flower I have just shown you and I’ll be in touch with
you.’

‘The others, do they?’

‘No!’ said the Secretary shortly. ‘There have been diffi-
culties in communication. They cannot reach us.’

‘Or we cannot reach them,’ retorted Jako. The Secretary
looked sideways at Jako who realised once again how
opaque the state of Converse is . . . and how easy it was to
see the concealed spaces in the Secretary’s mind, secret

59

hoards of awareness, guarded from Allness, to which it
belonged. And yet he could not see what those guarded
concealed. Text Twenty-Seven jumped into his mind.
It Allness cannot perceive, that it cannot contain— for it
contains All that it perceives, and perceives all that it con-
tains.’ But here was something Jako could not perceive

His mind stopped at the dizzy brink as the Secretary held
out his hands in the mudra of welcoming Allness, and the
Moulang trees swept around them and the blue-green
grasses flowed under their feet and the stone bench resumed
Its slow dance beneath them.

Jako was back in the Multiverse.

The green time after the Deliberation of the Duma was
always spent in silence on Maya Multos. A time of tran-
quillity before the rejoicing of the Yellow Sesta when
Everything danced the Atomic Spin.

Jako sank himself into the Allness with loving gratitude.
He became all the people of his beautiful planet, and all the
silent birds and breathing grasses, yet somewhere, some-
how, something interrupted the flow of it. He felt like a
stone in the river, part of the rushing current caught in a
slower time. The rock rushes into sand and out to sea far
slower than the water, slower than the fishes or the plants,
but the rock flows, thought Jako. At once the idea spread
from his mind into all things and rejoiced there as a gift of
the Deliberation. But Jako knew he had given birth to the
new thing. The Rock Flows’ became the Thirty-Third Text,
but Jako knew it as the first. In time he came to see it as his
first faltering step towards Monos.

Having no experience of singularity, Jako made no other
preparation for his departure. Having ascertained that he
was capable of giving birth to unique thought absolved him
of all worry about the future and he lost himself in the
Allness of the Atomic Spin like the giddiest of young
molecules.

After the Dance Jako went to the Fountains for refresh-
ment. Again the Secretary flashed the Converse signal and
Jako unhesitatingly returned it. At once he felt a surge of

6o

confidence through him and knew he could manage it
somehow.

This time the Secretary led him to a small tower set in
one comer of the formal parks and woodlands that sur-
rounded the city towers. Inside there was a large hall and a
winding stair that led up to the Tower.

The Secretary smiled, folding his hands in his robe like a

novice monk.

The Rock Flows,’ he said. That was very good. Now this
one will undoubtedly shock you — but there’s no other way.
You must do exactly as I tell you.’

Jako nodded.

‘Walk up those stairs.’ Jako did as he was told, feeling
the flowing stones through his feet, following its slow
spiral. At the top was a small square room with windows
on all sides and a transparent dome. Jako scratched his ear
and waited. A bellbird landed on the window ledge.

‘REVERSE ! ’ The Secretary ordered.

At once the bellbird flew backwards off the window-
ledge, Jako scratched his ear and then unfalteringly re-
versed all his actions, coming backwards down the stairs,
backed into the room and looked back at the Secretary who
said,

‘Stairs those up walk.’

Nodded Jako.

‘You tell I as exactly do must you. Way other no there’s
but — ^you shock undoubtedly will one this now. Good very
was that.’

Abruptly the sensation passed. Motion halted as in the
heart of the Atomic Spin and then Jako was in open
Converse with the Secretary again and Time was going
forward once more and the Secretary was saying, ‘There!
Don’t you see — it was in the language all the time. The
Engloid root.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Jako. ‘What happened?’

‘Reverse,’ said the Secretary. ‘We exist now solely in the
Converse, right?’

‘Right,’ agreed Jako feeling the twoness between them.

‘Very well, if we can move from the Multiverse into the
Converse, what’s to stop us from entering the Reverse?’

6i

‘I just did!' exclaimed Jako, and the sensation of sin-
gularity flowed over him with chilling awareness.

‘And of course, the Secretary continued, ‘If reality exists
through language — a hidden root, earlier than Engloid, than
Englitch even, the oldest language in the Multiverse . .

Jhe Secretary stopped in confusion.

‘The Reverse,' prompted Jako. ‘Is it only here— in this
tower?'

‘No. It seems to be anywhere. So far I have only at-
tempted it in Converse with the Chairman, but there's no
reason to suppose it does not exist tangentially to the
Multiverse.'

‘You mean — our whole civilization could be Reversed?'

Precisely. If the word spread, entire sequences of crea-
tion could be Reversed. You see now why I have secretly
initiated you into Converse.'

‘But what has Monos got to do with it?'

‘Who knows?' said the Secretary with some agitation.
‘The obsession with Hermitages is something the Chairman
and Jela brought back from their own Converse. Every new
inhabitable planet that is discovered must be settled im-
mediately with one man.'

*But why?'

Out of the Multiverse you have come into the Converse,
and from here I have shown you the Reverse. But remem-
ber that you went there in singleness.'

A strange terror clutched at Jako’s throat, a black
shadow that was hauntingly familiar.

Singleness is the outcome of all our culture,' said the
Secretary . ^ The Many shall become One" as the First Text
says. Hermitage is designed to create that One-ness. We will
acquire individualness without sacrificing Allness.' He
paused in his earnest tirade and then laughed to put his
companion at ease.

‘Remember the childtale? The Myth of the Universe?'

Jako started. ‘Surely you're not suggesting there could be
a place. It’s ridiculous ! '

Childtale is Lifestory”,' quoted the Secretary and Jako
seemed to see the familiar shadow again, and almost it
spoke to him. He shuddered free of it and said.

62

‘But the others who have gone . . . they won't talk with
you?’

‘That was never said, but you have come to it through
the polarity of this Converse. As you see, we are in an
opaque place. There is no telling what the other really
knows. But I’ll tell you. We have sent out seventeen candi-
dates for Hermitage, and none has remained in communica-
tion. Maybe they have found the Universe and are unable
to return or contact us. You must keep in touch, Jako!
Allness depends upon it!’ And as he said the words the
Secretary realised he'd left Allness far behind. Only the
Chairman and his Jela knew these things, and the Hermits
of course, and now Jako. But he too would soon change.

While they talked inside the Tower the light outside was
changing from orange to red. The cause of the Maya Multos
Rainbow Day was a large moon called Saturnos with col-
oured rings through which the sun’s rays shone once per
year. The red Sesta marked the approach of the infra-
red/ultra-violet switchover point, which was technically a
full eclipse of the sun by the body of the moon Saturnos,
before it passed again through the rings of light in the
opposite order.

‘The Day changes,’ said Jako.

The Secretary nodded and they both made the mudra of
loving Allness and went out into the Multiverse again.

As the Secretary closed the door Jako gave birth to the
Thirty-Fourth Text, which came slowly as if through an un-
dissipated mist of awareness. The Secretary had opened the
door . . . they had entered the tower and the Converse and
Jako had ventured into the Reverse . . . and now they were
back. The Secretary closed the heavy wooden door and they
returned to the Multiverse. It was as if the whole event had
gone back on itself; entrance always followed by exit. The
Reverse was with them all the time, a hidden part of every-
day life . . . the repeated pattern, the action that returned
upon itself. ‘The door closes before it opens,’ said Jako and
although only the Secretary fully understood him the
thought spread out over the Red Sesta and was repeated
constantly during the Struggle.

63

The Red Sesta was no longer an uneasy period. The con-
flicts that naturally arose at such a time had been ritualised
in such a way that no being was hurt by it.

Enormous fires were lit as beacons on all the surrounding
hills and the people rushed to the Central Beacon as fast as
they could. It didn’t matter who arrived first, the point was
the amount of effort that was exerted. Everyone had to
overstrain themselves, push out beyond the limits of their
physical strength and control. Anyone who died from over
exertion was considered a saint and included on the Rolls of
the True Believers.

As soon as the sunlight turned scarlet they set off. The
aged and crippled staggering at top speed along the rocky
road while the young and fit ran all the way to the peri-
meter of the fire before running back down again and start-
ing from scratch. On their last trip the strongest would pick
up those who had fallen. All arrived in a state of utter
exhaustion. All anger conflict and resentment was purged
in the ordeal. The six strongest then went back to bring up
the Chairman in his bronze travelling chair. The effort this
cost was considered the supreme sacrifice to the Multi verse,
the giving of All unto All. When the Chairman finally
reached the Central Beacon the flames roared under the
crimson sky and drenched the panting figures with bloody
light. Gradually the sun slipped through a red shift into a
total eclipse by Satumos. As the light took on the strange
quality of darkness at noon, of light in the absence of light,*
the stars appeared as a ghostly host of confederate suns.
Then the knowing came into Allness that Jako, who had
been one of those who carried the bronze chair, was to be
transmitted to the newly discovered Hermitage of Monos.

The Court Astronomer stepped forward, a shadow of
light in the bright darkness. He touched Jako on the right
shoulder and gave him a heavy, richly bound copy of The
Book. Jako was singled out of the Multi verse by the Astron-
omer’s bony hand and the Allness flowed into the Court
Astronomer in the Infra-Ultra Hour and he pointed to an
exact point in the Cosmos. It seemed to Jako the Centre star
of a three star belt, loneliness stole over him like a mon-
strous cloak and then -he was being transmitted. The Allness

64

of the people of Maya Multos standing in sacred robes
beside the glowing fires centred on the figure of the Court
Astronomer, who shimmered with their power. One hand
on Jako, the other on the planet of another star. He glowed
against the darkness, more than ever just a shadow of light,
a bright hazy shape amid shadows. For an instant the star
flashed a response, a rainbow haze formed a ring around it
and the feeling of rushing through space made all other
men clutch their fists in the Mudra of Holding On. Then
Jako’s unnoticed shadow was gone and all thought of his
existence was taboo until the Rainbow Sunset in seven
Sestas time.

Jako sat silent as the sun rose over the desert. His third
day on Monos. Today he must open The Book. Since Hermi-
tage had first been ordained by the Call as the Sacred Way
to colonise outlying planets the Hermits had always been
provided with a copy of The Book. No-one else had ever
seen it and Jako had often wondered what it contained.
Now he sat beside his own copy, dimly hearing the awaken-
ing sounds of this alien planet.

The desert rustled with life. Streak lizards ran over the
rocks and furmice scuttled out of their way. The silent
whitebirds flickered over the desert emitting their strange
execution ray and moving with all the careless aristocracy
of the unchallenged predator. Kings of the food chain until
age and weakened wings should feed them to the ants.

Jako knew he was invulnerable here, protected from all
misfortune. He ate two molassos and a handful of buttons
from the cactus. He liked the molassos best, small, sugary
accretions like crystal nuts on the tips of a spiky bush. The
cactii were bitter, but they were key foods, psychotropic
gateways to the modes of being and perception peculiar to
the planet of Monos. Before the effects of the cactii could
overwhelm him, Jako went back to his meditation rock, sat
down and opened the Book.

The first page read as follows. There is only one Multi-
verse.’

Jako’s mind reeled from the suddenness of the attack. It
was a total, blasphemous reversal of the Holy Credo. ‘The

65

Multiverse are many, in the many are several, continuously
being always, everywhere/

He tried to repeat the Credo but the monstrous idea that
the Multiverse was only a minor part of creation struck to
the very core of his beliefs, snatched the central pivot from
the structure of his ideas. He felt near the sudden collapse
into madness, but his experiences with the Converse and
the Reverse had prepared him for this realisation and he
managed to contain his hysteria.

He thought of contacting the Secretary but the idea was
repugnant to him. He had tasted forbidden knowledge
and he guessed at once why none of the other hermits had
troubled to make contact. Maya Multos was a state of mind
they could never share again.

Jako turned his eyes to the desert and prepared to go out
into the Allness of its forms. Then he became a bunch of
sungolds growing beside a rock, then he was ant, streak
lizard, furmouse and whitebird, reaching his being out into
all forms of life. For a moment he felt a flood of relief that
he was still in the Multiverse, still part of All and then . . .
a big red-blue streak lizard ran towards him and he began
to become it . . , and missed ! Somehow the lizard slipped
through his multi-connected mind and darted towards his
face, tongue flickering.

Jako stared, unable to comprehend this movement out-
side of pattern. The streak lizard radiated such an intensity
of individuality that Jako lost balance, slipped from all co-
ordinates and crashed back into solitude. He opened The
Book again and turned to the second page where he was
amazed to read the words, ‘Solitude is the Queen of Uni-
versal Contemplation.*

The word Universal left Jako speechless, yet it so ac-
curately mirrored his present condition, unable to be any-
thing other than himself. Universe — One-ness— an isolated
Here-Nowness of infinite singularity. It made no sense. Yet
here he was cut off from everything and unable to resume
co-terminous existence with the rest of the Multiverse. All
was All, save for himself. He felt as though he were lost
between his awareness of his own existence and his exist-
ence itself. In other words he was cast out from the Multi-

66

verse, fallen from shared grace into the dungeon of in-
dividuality.

From that point on. The Book was everything to Jako,
and although he ate regularly of the Molassos and cactii the
desert was forgotten as he slowly made his way into a
world within himself of whose existence he had never even
dreamed.

After a while the Book ceased to frighten him and he
came to see it as an open, often witty construction of this
new Order of Being. The Universe. He learned that there
were different galaxies where non-parallel physical laws
obtained, in some worlds light was slower than sound for
example, or there were spectrum inversions. With such a
variety of physical Constants, Consciousness differed
widely between the Galaxies. To be sure, the Polyverse and
the Multiverse had many things in common, as did the
Universe and the Soliverse, but fundamentally the Cosmos
was formed of non-communicating parts.

At last Jako came to the core of The Book;

‘You are here alone, the single growing point of your
cosmos in spacetime. All other Galaxy chains rely on your
imagination for their existence. You are brought here as
The Dreamer. The Universe is your toy, as you dream so in
the cosmos shall it be. This is the Secret above all secrets.
That which your heart discovers.*

For a brief moment he thought of contacting the Sec-
retary, but things had gone too far for that. The Secretary
was but a cog in a wheel, while Jako dreamed the circle
from which the wheel was born. But as he watched the
cosmos turning he became aware of other steps, other
hands in the motion of the stars — of other dreamers in the
dream.

Remembering there were Hermitages older than his own,
his mind raced among the stars trying to find the hidden
Centre of Events. The core of dreaming. Slowly his aware-
ness changed, it was not that there were other dreamers in
the dream, but that other dreams were dreaming him. The
impact of this realisation shook him like a gale-flung rag.
He was a dreamer dreaming of a dream in which he was

67

dreamt of by dreamers from his dream. Passively co-creat-
ing an active illusion.

And at last, within his dreaming, he discovered Orva, the
Hermit of Solos who had been transmitted the year before.
Orva pointed to his copy of The Book and said, ‘Make it
change!’ And Jako dreamed he commanded The Book to
change, so that when he re-opened it he saw a series of new
chapter headings on the title page :

1. The Multiverse

2. The Converse

3. The Reverse

4. The Universe

5. The Adverse

6. The Perverse

7. The Subverse

8. The Controverse

9. The Diverse

10. The Inverse

11. The Extroverse

12. The Introverse

13. The Idioverse

Jako saw each of these as a total pattern of existence, a
blueprint for creation. Each one the life pulse of a world.
He looked again and Orvar was saying,

Sonos, the oldest Hermit, has been on Discoveria for 330
years. He was the one who compiled the word banks.’

‘Word banks,’ faltered Jako.

‘Of course. Word banks are dictionaries. Sonos played
around with Multiverse, Converse, Universe for a while, as
we’re doing, then he decided they were only facets of real-
ity so he set out to collect a word bank. Every word of
Engloid he could gather. By the time Gompal, the second
Hermit, had reached the same point in his own meditations
ten years later, Sonos had finished. So Gompal compiled an
older, Englitch version. They figured words to be the keys
to a hidden reality. Understand the word “Multiverse” and
yet exist within it, the same with the others. Hence there
must be a secret key in every word, like something in the
word “tree” which leads to “treeness”. After all, the Engloid

68

/Englitch language is over a hundred thousand generations
old.’ Orvar laughed, and for a moment Jako saw him as
he’d been when he was Court Librarian at Maya Multos
before being transmitted to the Hermitage.

‘It’ll all make sense when you’ve read what you’ve got in
The Book so far,’ concluded Orvar. ‘Remember, just yell
“change” and the next lesson will appear.’

Orvar vanished and Jako lost himself in The Book once
more, passing through a Dream History of the Cosmos, seen
through the lenses of the changing Verses. In the Reverse
he witnessed the whole of creation breaking down. Devolu-
tion from man to primate to fish, mollusc, amoeba, earth,
water, gas. Stars flooding back into a Cosmic Egg of Pure
Light. Hydrogen.

In the Universe he was alone.

The Adverse was a History of mistake and disaster — end-
less worlds of confusion and misery where everything went

wrong.

The Perverse was a state of profound wrongness, of sick
light and malevolent stars, of humanity warped by cruel
Divinity. This state shaded into the Subverse where energy
conspired against matter and consciousness.

There was even a footnote which read,

‘No reference is made here to two states of being which
should theoretically exist according to the word bank of
the Ancient Englitch Speech. These are Freeverse and
Blankverse, both of which have survived in fragmentary
scripts from the forgotten past.’

On and on he went, experiencing the Wars of the Con-
troverse — the contradictions of the Diverse and the Inverse
— the expansion of the Extroverse and the swooping, soar-
ing contemplation of the Introverse. And in this last state
his mind at last began to find itself, hidden among its own
creations, conspiring in its own existence. As he turned the
page to the last chapter he knew that he had arrived at the
core of Consciousness. That which dreams, that which
wakens. That which contains all the other states within it-
self. The true Allness, the Idioverse, the limitless empyrean

69

of mental creation — the Consciousness beyond energy or
matter. Whose name is MOHO.

Within the Idioverse Jako was an insubstantial, infinite
thought. He considered the seventeen Hermits and they
were all within him, other atoms of awareness, radiating
infinite cosmologies of possible existence. Sonos was no
more than a flash of an idea, and at the same time his idea
contained all things. It was as if one word in a book could
mean every other word in a language . . . MOHO — the
word/sound that contains all other meanings, possible and
undreamt of.

The Hermits were no more than the germ of an idea, a
flash of thought in the Great Mind of which the stars and
galaxies were merely the electrodes, the computer termin-
als of the Idioverse.

And in an instant the thought of the Idioverse changed.
The Cosmos disappeared, stars and galaxies vanished and in
their place came another concept. Jako, Sonos, Maya
Multos, the Multiverse and all the ramifications of the
thought before were gone forever. The Idioverse changed
utterly. Matter, Space, Energy and Time were no longer the
ingredients of the Cosmic equation. If these things ever
existed they vanished without trace. Through Jako’s dream,
the thought form had returned to the Mind which first pro-
jected it and so the Great Mind was free to think again.

70

THREE DEADLY ENIGMAS: V
YEAR BY YEAR THE EVIL GAINS

by

Brian W. Aldiss

It would seem fair to suggest that the titling of these
three latest engimas could have been dictated by the
numbering of the first of them that number,
thirteen, may very well have prompted thoughts of
evil. Slightly longer this time, the enigmas take on a
body, the substance proving conclusively that their
journey has most certainly not died for lack of
destination. However, thoughts of evil were clearly
very far from Brian Aldiss's mind when he wrote
that he wished to dedicate these three stories to: *the
memory of that fine Scots writer, Eric Linklater, a
master of humour, prose and fantasy, who has just
died. His writing delighted me in my youth, and my
pen owes a great deal more to his than mere ink, or
than mere ink can say.'

(

THREE DEADLY ENIGMAS: V
YEAR BY YEAR THE EVIL GAINS

WITHIN THE BLACK CIRCLE
KILLING OFF THE BIG ANIMALS
WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHY ARE YOU DOING

IT?

XIII Within The Black Circle

Every year of her life, she had invented something. The first
invention she could remember was the separated-vision ex-
perience, conducted in bed with one eye above the blanket
and one below. She had been four then.

Although she recalled that there had been inventions
even before that age, the separated-vision experience had
been so seminal that it obliterated its feebler forerunners.
Most of the later inventions owed something to the separ-
ated-vision experience, which had revealed to her and still
continued to reveal — that if you took up certain positions
you could receive dual and conflicting impressions of the
universe.

For instance, I used to read a novel. The Green Rat by
Michael Arlen, over and over again. It was the novel my
mother was reading when she died. I came to associate the
colour green with sickness and death — ^not with the colours
of nature but with all that is unnatural. Gradually I came to
formulate a colour-emotion code; that was another of my
inventions.

Some of those inventions were harmful to my psychic

development, I believe, however much the inventiveness
itself succoured me. I was very much an isolated child. My
father did not live in the Kremlin with me.

Not to be tedious, I will instance only one more of my
inventions, and that the greatest of them. It was of a pro-
foundly religious nature.

So many of our family, my uncles and aunts and cousins,
disappeared before I reached the age of puberty. People
vanished from around me like shadows. I never understood
what happened to them until much later. So it came about
that, by the war years, I was in an isolated position, bereft
of friends of my own age or of senior years. Only my old
nurse was close to me. I used to stare for hours out of my
window, over the crenellated walls of the Kremlin, gazing
on the great world outside and wondering if it was all as
boring there as here. Finally, my breath would mist the
pane; the outside world would disappear.

In Moscow during the war years, there was a popular
perfume available called ‘Svetlana’s Breath’, to flatter my
father. I used to laugh at that — ^what could be less effective,
or more pathetic, more solitary ?

Gazing from my little window, I formulated my religious
theory. Stated briefly, it was that nobody ever died and no
new people were ever bom. Bodies decayed and had to be
done away with, to be replenished by new babies, but the
vital part, the soul (by which I meant the whole person-
ality), lived on, translated into a fresh body.

Perhaps I was trying to console myself. When my older
step-brother Yakov disappeared in the war, my religious
theory came to my aid. I imagined him living elsewhere.
The same with old friends, and with my aunts and grand-
parents, all of whom had disappeared from our gloomy
little scene. They were elsewhere, happy.

As I imagined the process when I had perfected it, what
happened was that the personality of someone loved would
move to another body, perhaps a small child’s, living in
another part of the country, possibly even in a completely
different part of the world. There, the personality would
gradually shape the appearance and circumstances of the

74

new life until it came to resemble as closely as possible the

old one. r i i j

For instance, Sergei Kirov, whom even my father had

loved, and who had been shot in 1934, was still alive in a
new body, somewhere where we should never see him
again, but still enjoying life, still remembering me and my
dear 'mother, in Sverdlovsk, or Irkutsk, or even Kazan or
Khabarovsk.

Perhaps my mother was still alive, still young in a new
body, looking just as I remembered her when I was a small
girl, thinking of me yet in Paris, or even Rio de Janeiro or
Buenos Aires.

You see how this belief was a development of the sep-
arated-vision theory, in a way. Given the right way of look-
ing, you might get an entirely different view of the universe
from everyone else. The things everyone regarded as real
might be just illusions. I strove to perfect a way of viewing
the real reality.

Maybe this all sounds preposterous; but my life-style con-
tributed to such alienation. I lived one way outwardly,
another inwardly. Our ‘home’ in the Kremlin was miser-
able, so that I was forced to recall happier times.

Ugh ! That Kremlin apartment ! My father rarely visited
there. I was left alone with my faithful old nurse and the
horrible domestic retinue, all of course in the employ of the
OGPU or MGB. We were housed in the old Senate build-
ing, on the first floor, where a wide corridor had been con-
verted into separate rooms. Those rooms still had sections
of high vaulted ceiling, which plainly didn’t belong. The
interior walls were flimsy, the outer ones nearly five feet
thick.

Father generally worked on the floor above; there were
the offices of the Chairman of the Council of Ministers and
First Secretary of the Communist Party and other well-
placed bureaucrats. I never went up there, except on one
occasion in 1942, when Winston Churchill came to talk
with my father. The truth was, I loathed the building and

all the people in it.

Small wonder I tried to live back in the times when I was

75

a little girl and things had been happy. When my mother
was alive, we used to go down to the Caucasus in the sum-
mer, when we'd all drive into the wilds and have great
splendid picnics, often with Mikoyan, Voroshilov and Mol-
otov and all their wives and children. Little we thought
then of the terrible times that were to overtake us! My
father would sometimes go shooting — mainly hares or
hawks — quick, small things — but he was not a great hunter
of animals.

He was surrounded by happy people in those days,
people he trusted. All of that vanished when mother shot
herself. He became colder and harder, year by year, and
year by year the evil gained over him, while more treacher-
ous and bestial people surrounded him, notably Lavrenty
Pavlovich Beria. Towards the end of my father’s life, say
from the war years onwards, I felt that to be near him was
like being on the slopes of a high mountain; the atmosphere
was so chill, so sparse, that you had to fight for breath. The
human spirit expired in his presence.

Once I had discovered how he drove my mother to
suicide, relations between my father and me could never be
cordial again. Nevertheless, something of that old Georgian
warmth remained, even in wartime, even within that ter-
rible black circle he had drawn round himself. We still used
to see films together.

Right at the other end of the Kremlin was a small theatre,
situated in what had once been the Winter Garden. My
father and I would go there late at night, he muffled in his
greatcoat, saying not a word, walking very slowly with me
through the deserted courts. Sometimes, we heard the
rumble of tanks in Red Square beyond the walls.

We never visited the cinema without an escort, even in
the heavily defended Kremlin. We were accompanied by
many members of my father’s bodyguard, all well-armed,
of course, and by two armoured cars, which growled along
behind us in low gear, following us on our way to see some-
thing very frivolous, perhaps.

Inside the cinema, it was generally cold. We kept our
coats on. My father and I sat at the front, in comfortable

7 ^

which had survived from Tsarina Alexandra’s tinie.
The bodyguard sat at the back of the hall. All watched the
crreen with equal attention.

There we saw all the best Soviet films, including some
with a rather dull propagandist motivation. But what my
father and I most enjoyed were the American films, which
of course could not be shown to the people of Moscow.
When they were too decadent, my father sent the body-
guard to wait outside; but he never sent me away.

Mv favourite films were musicals. My favourite singing
stars were Betty Grable, Alice Faye and Judy Garland. Sit-
ting there in the Kremlin, we saw Strike up the Band, Spring-
time in the Rockies, Down Argentina Way and other
cheerful films. My father did not enjoy all the nudity, but
nevertheless the music seemed to relax him.

I used to sing to my nurse, ‘You’ll find
begin. The very moment you’re in— Argentina,’ but she
would wisely hush me. The words were poignant; I half-
believed that my mother might be alive in another incama-
tion in Buenos Aires.

Despite this film-going, I grew to dread my father as I
came to understand all he stood for. Yet I wept when
finally he died of his stroke. Bulgagin, Voroshilov and
Khrushchev were there at the last, and they all wept too.
After all, they had truly loved him and believed in the com-
mon cause. When finally I left the dacha, and we climbed
into the car, Bulganin put his arms round me and we wept

together. , _ , ^

Somehow, somewhere, there may have been another

world where it all turned out otherwise. Maybe we should

just have seen things differently and it would really have

been different.

XIV Killing Off The Big Animals

The ocean was shaped like a body, the Bay of Zubariski like
a head. A narrow neck divided bay from sea, where a g^-
logical noose had been drawn tight about the throat. On the

77

rocky peninsular at that point, cascading down into the
waters, stood the town-heap of Zubariski. Behind it sat the

uncompromising shape of the Seventh Exploration Team’s
starship.

Towards sunset, the five members of the team surfaced
almost in unison and climbed out of the darkening water to
lie and gasp on the rocks. They pulled off their masks and
snorkels, automatically looking back at the ocean.

‘It’s really great sport!’ exclaimed Hamura’ Redon. ‘Like
nothing you ever met on Earth.’ He wiped the sweat from
his face and spat on to the rocks.

‘I guess I killed twenty of the bastards,’ said Nothing
Chaundy, unzipping his plastic suit and laughing. ‘Maybe
twenty-four, twenty-five, who knows? You lose count...’

‘Oh, why bother to count?’ Nils Martenson said. ‘There
are millions of them in the oceans, just waiting to be ex-
terminated, waiting to die, glad to die ! Wow, that socko
effect of feeling them die ! It’s incredible. This must be the
greatest hunting place in the whole galaxy. Look out there
— more coming ! ’

He pointed out to sea. Peculiar rock formations lent the
Great Silarian Ocean a striped effect, where deep water
alternated with ridges of rock, heavily fringed with crimson
kelp, rising to just below the surface. The ocean was red
here, not only with the reflection of the kelp, but with the
blood of the slaughtered leviathans, some of the carcasses
of which still threshed feebly near shore. Among them, new
shapes moved.

‘It’s like the last few evenings,’ Nothing Chaundy said.
‘They’re coming in to cart away their dead. Then the dumb
goons will be back tomorrow to get themselves killed. They
can’t get enough of it.’

‘Guess we can oblige them,’ Joe Camate said, and they all
laughed.

They picked up their gear and trudged through the can-
cerous spikes of the town-heap, companionably chatting
together as they made their way uphill between walls of
pitted alleyways. The dark was coming on. They’d had a
fantastic day’s sport. An evening’s drinking lay ahead. And

78

of course there were the girls, waiting for them, chained, in

^^Tust^one fly in the ointment,’ David Schmidt said. ‘The
Sector Adjudicator is due to arrive tomorrow. He’s going to
raise hell when he finds how we’ve been breaking Galactic
Law, slaughtering an Inferior Species.’

‘We can fix him.’ Nothing Chaundy said, grimly.

The Sector Adjudicator arrived as expected. His slim
vessel put down neatly a few metres away from the Ex-
ploration ship, and the Adjudicator himself emerged, when
the dust had subsided, accompanied by two law-enforce-
ment robots. j .

The Adjudicator was a young man, rather delicate to

look at, with fair hair and stern grey eyes. His clothes were
neat, his gestures likewise. Without hesitation, he marched
towards the starship, where the five team-members were
lounging, and introduced himself as Judge Jack Paramour.
They eyed him with contempt, staring at his lips rather
than his eyes as he spoke.

‘I received a scatter to say that you have established con-
tact with a sentient marine life-form here on Silaria. Is that

correct?’ 1 t j

'Correct, ’ agreed Nothing Chaundy. ‘And “established

contact’’ just about sums it up. To put it bluntly. Judge, we

been having the time of our lives shooting that aforesaid

damned marine life-form to all hell and back, haven t we,

boys?’

Laughingly, the others agreed.

‘That is a contravention of Galactic Law and carries the
extreme penalty, if you have been doing as you say.

‘What do you mean, if? Are you doubting our word.
Judge?’ Hamura Redon roared, in genial fashion. ‘Let’s take
you down to the shore and show you ! You d accept two
hundred carcasses as evidence, wouldn’t you?

Paramour drew himself up and said, ‘Your attitude is one
of extreme irresponsibility. It is my duty to warn you that
my robots here are recording everything you say, and that
the judiciary computer may use the recording in evidence.
If you wait here, I will equip myself for a visit to these

(

79

marine creatures.’ He nodded grimly, turned and walked
back to his ship, the robots marching in step with him. Both
robots had eyes in the back of their heads.

To hell with him,’ said Joe Camate. ‘Let’s get our gear
and go down to the juice. That soft little Earthman can join
us if he feels like it.’

He said it loud enough for Paramour to hear.

Paramour did not turn. Entering his ship, he quickly
stripped down and dressed himself in a frog-suit. If the
marine life-form had developed some primitive kind of
communication, as the scatter had suggested, then he hoped
to be able to meet them in their own element. He had no

need to make a preliminary report; the robots had it all on
record.

This team has entirely forgotten the Exploration Char-
ter,’ he observed to his attendants. ‘Some force has been at
work on them and we must find what it is. It could be
dangerous — an airborne spore, for instance, which renders
people reckless and uninhibited, and so easy prey to preda-
tors. They behave almost like drunks. Could be something
water-borne, if they’ve been much in the water . . .’

He returned outside. The magnificent oblate sun floated
over a range of hills, its edges ragged, its core streaked with
orange furies. It shone on the starship. The team had gone.

Paramour started towards the ruinous pile of town-heap.
Soon, he was among its winding alleys. The buildings were
all of pebble, bound together with something that could
have been mud or pulverised rock. It gave the place a lep-
rous effect. He scratched at a wall and found it uncrumbl-
ing. There were doorways, but no doors. After only a
moment’s hesitation, he entered one of the buildings.

The room was irregularly formed. It might have been a
cave. It contained no artefacts. At the back of the room was
a slope with crudely formed and irregular steps cut in it. He
climbed them cautiously, to find himself on the next floor.
He called to the robots to stay below and guard.

This room was dark, lit only by a window no bigger than
a hand. Paramour went to it and stared out. Through the
shafts of other buildings he could see the distant glitter of

8o

oceans. He moved to another room on the same level. That
also was empty. The floors were uneven. There was a stale
damp smell everywhere. He stood silently, his hand on one
pitted wall, thinking, wondering. The empty spaces of
universe came down and touched him.

He climbed up two more storeys. That was as high as he
could go. Where there were windows, they were small and
irregular; all looked towards the ocean. Paramour extended
his senses, trying to comprehend what sort of life had filled
the building, the town. All that came back to him was a
faint sound of waves.

Something made him reluctant to leave.

Finally, he retraced his steps, emerging into the shadowed
street. Without a word, he motioned to the robots to follow
him. He walked down an incline, over irregularly placed
stones. No weeds grew between stones, not a blade of grass.
He came to the rocks.

Various items of undersea equipment lay scattered by the
water’s edge. He noticed spare oxy-helium cylinders, fli^
pers, two magnificent harpoon guns, before he turned his
attention to the waters.

To his right side was the sweep of the Bay of Zubariski.
Although the water looked still, except where it lapped
against the land, it was dark and uninviting. He observed
that the sand which fringed it was black and of volcanic
origin. To his left lay the expanse of ocean. He sent one of
the robots down into the water to collect a sample and
make an analysis. While that was happening, he stood with
arms folded and eyes narrowed, looking about at the land,
the coastline with its distant bays, the ocean, the orangey

sky with its freight of cloud.

The robot read off its analysis. The ocean was the usual
vat of salts, cast up from the early days of the planet, con-
stantly replenished by the elements, constantly yielding

itself.

A shape came rolling up the water, threshing with a
clumsy arm. It rotated as it did so, and a spiral swathe of
crimson p)oured from a breach in its vivid yellow body.
Paramour looked down at it with interest, adopting a pro-

(

8i

fessional stance which concealed both pity and distaste. An
arm was flung from the ocean and struck rock. For a
moment, it seemed as if the creature was going to heave
itself from the water, and Paramour stared into a horizontal
face — at least, there were two wide-spaced eyes, with lids
that blinked and pupils that appeared to weep. Then the
thing fell back into the water.

Another creature blundered to the surface beside it and
died. This one had a harpoon right through one of its eyes.

‘Photograph them,’ Paramour ordered the robots. ‘I’m
going to stop those men. The entire Exploration Team must
have gone mad. This situation is about to turn into a mas-
sacre, and I can’t let it happen.’

His face went pale with rage. The act of summary execu-
tion lay within his powers as Adjudicator, and he was pre-
pared to use it rather than stand by and see wild life so
casually wiped out. He zipped up his suit, snapped down
the face-plate, and prepared to enter the water. At the last
moment, it occurred to him that he was about to face five
irresponsible men; he turned and snatched a harpoon-gun
from the rock, charging it as he kicked himself below the
surface.

The water was murky with blood from dying animals.
He switched on his beam. All about him were slowly
threshing limbs. He realised that the current was bringing
the maimed creatures in towards the neck of bay, and that
the trigger-happy members of the exploration team were
possibly some way out to sea.

The marine creatures had six legs, two pairs at one end of
their pod-like bodies, one pair at the other. The legs were
distinctly four-sided and covered with markings which
might be scales. The underside of their bellies was a sombre
green in contrast to the bright yellow of their backs. Large
mouths were set in these bellies. The mouths were open as
if in pain, but Paramour saw no teeth there. He did not
believe that the creatures were or could be dangerous. They
looked as helpless as babies.

As he dived under another great carcass, a human figure
swam to meet him and clutched his arm.

‘I order you to stop this insane killing,’ Paramour shouted.

82

The other man pressed his face-plate to Paramour’s and
said, ‘Glad you could join us. You investigated that town-
heap? It’s used by the land-going phase of these beasties.
Isn’t that crazy? But it’s light-years more fun to .slaughter
them down here ! ’

He broke away and was gone from Paramour’s grasp.
Alone again. Paramour kicked out for deeper water.

The ocean floor fell away below in a startlingly steep
descent. The water was clear of blood, so that Paramour
switched off his beam. As he did so, a new sensation came
over him.

He began wishing he could meet an unwounded creature
face-to-face. He felt he could ... he felt he could put it
right. In some way, these silly creatures had gone wrong.
They had become too big and too clumsy. They were
also — no doubt of that — too damned trusting. So damned
trusting that you could not in part help realising that they
deserved all they got.

These reflections were slightly feverish. Afterwards,
Paramour could never recall how exactly he experienced
them. He only knew that he was overwhelmed by a lust to
sort these great innocent boobies out.

At which point, one of the creatures rose from some-
where below him, materialising out of the thick fathoms of
green. He watched it coming, with only its rear legs kick-
ing, its front pairs raised as if in some idiot form of greet-
ing. Its body was rocking, so that he saw the eyes and the
open mouth in turn, on either side of the pod-shaped body.
It looked rather as if the creature was making a foolish
grinning face at him. He blasted off with the harpoon-gun
almost without realising what he did.

To his delight, the bolt caught the creature in the corner
of its mouth. It went into immediate contortions of pain,
crumpling up most satisfyingly, trying to wrap all its limbs
round the point from which death was pouring into it.
Paramour seemed almost to catch some of its agony, and
sweet was the taste of it. He deliberately flipped through
the curtains of its blood as he went in search of another
target.

There were many more creatures around. They were

83

flocking in, almost as if asking to be killed. He longed to
slay every one of them, to make them die lingering deaths,
to suffer and sink and suppurate in blood. A great pair of
eyes turned on him from the depths. This creature, he saw,
was monstrous, the biggest yet, and had two small
creatures at its side. By the gravities, it was a mother, suckl-
ing two infants as it went along. The demand to kill her,
and to blow the infants apart, was irresistible. He loaded
up, letting her see what he was doing — ^just in case, as he
hoped, she was intelligent enough to understand his action.
Then he blasted her between the eyes. The little ones clung
to her twitching carcass until he shot them just as antici-
pated, limbs drifting slowly apart, curtains of guts dis-
entangling.

The human figure was back again, pulling at his arm.
They touched face-plates.

‘You’re doing good. Judge. There’s masses more of the
bastards out where we are. Come on ! ’

‘I’m coming,’ Paramour said. ‘Did you see the way I blew
those babies apart! Jesus, what terrific sport!’

Together, they kicked out for deeper water.

XV What Are You Doing?

Why Are You Doing It?

While Jack Paramour was enjoying a sporting holiday on
the planet Silaria, he had a strange dream. It came and
went, and was like no ordinary dream. When the gravo-
neuronic rhythms of the body are disturbed by a strange
planet, dreams are never ordinary, their architecture in-
dicates a cellular awareness of planetary difference.

Jackson Paramour, Jack’s father, had been a brilliantly
successful costume-jewellery designer in his time. He had
been single-minded in his profession, always working, al-
ways travelling — either to acquire exotic stones or to sell
his creations, and had had little time for his wife and three
sons. ‘Let’s face it,’ the eldest son Roy once said to Jack,

84 '

father’s as vulgar at heart as his gawds. He’s got nothing to
offer us but tinsel.’

Jackson Paramour, who drove himself too hard, died
when the boys were young. It was a sunny day early in
May, when the blossom was on the bough, and Paramour
had cornered the zircon market. His sons were poured into
suits and ties and taken to a dreadful mausoleum modelled
on the Hajia Sofia in Istanbul (but five times bigger), where
the tarted-up remains of Dad were ceremonially enclosed in
a coffin of white marble. They went back home laughing
to their private hot-cat track. Tea was served at 4.30 as
usual.

The exploration starship ‘Hamura Redon’ had discovered
a G-type sun with nine planets. Captain Nothing Gabitas
checked with Shipmind.

‘It is Sol, The Sun,’ said Shipmind, when it had munched
up spectrographic and other data.

‘Hey, we’ve found The Sun, boys,’ Gabitas said into his
chair-mike. ‘Pure accident. All this while, everyone thought
it was over in Galaxy Six — ^just shows how wrong you can
be.’

‘Say, Cap, why don’t we just tiptoe on past it and leave it
among the lost?’ Conroy said. ‘I’m for heading for home
and a change of women.’

Some agreed with Conroy, some disagreed.

‘I think we ought to look in on it while we’re in the
vicinity,’ Gabitas said. ‘Considering people have been search-
ing for it for centuries. Wasn’t it supposed to have a couple
of inhabited planets or something?’

‘To hell with mythology. I’m with Conroy — ^let’s get
home,’ said Pete Ulysses, who had a wife waiting for him,
he hoped.

‘Let’s put it to the vote,’ Gabitas said.

Three were for heading straight on and forgetting all
about it. Four were for taking a quick look while they had
the chance.

Gabitas spoke to Shipmind.

‘Take us in,’ he said. ‘And start waking up our bodies,
will you?’

(

85

Jack Paramour was a grown man now. He wore the in-
signia of his clan. He was walking through a museum with
a friend when they came on the Books section. Looking idly
about him as they strolled past the crowded shelves, he
caught sight of his own name on a faded cloth spine and
went closer.

YOU GET MORE BY BEING NICE. By Jackson Paramour.

‘My father wrote that Book!' Jack said, and burst out
laughing. ‘Sorry, what were you saying about interplanet-
ary subterfuge as applicable under the law of tort?’

They strolled on.

Later, he thought about the Book. The trajectory of his
father’s life had evidently not been the straight brutal rise
from infancy to millionairedom to coronary as hitherto
believed. Somewhere, there had been other impulses in the
man. Jack Paramour was not imaginative — at one time, he
had been a passionate stamp-collector — ^but he suddenly
realised that the costume-jewellery which was his father’s
trade might have begun as more than just an immensely
profitable line; it might even have originated in a real
creative spark. He decided he must acquire a copy of his
father’s book.

He advertised for ‘You Get More For Being Nice’. Since
money was no object, he soon had a copy in his hands. The
leaves seemed to tremble as he opened it.

They were bellowing with laughter on the ‘Hamura
Redon’. The sun The Sun was close now; the crew were all
back in their bodies, exercising and exhibiting them like
new suits. But Shipmind was assuring them that the sun
ahead had only eight attendant planets, and not nine.

‘Then you’ve ballsed things up again, Shipmind, sorry,’
said Gabitas. ‘You say yourself there should be nine planets.
You’ve got your readings all wrong.’

They loved it when they thought they had caught Ship-
mind in error, like children rebelling against parental
stupidity.

‘The readings all point to my initial assumptions being
one hundred percent correct,’ said Shipmind. ‘Luminosity,
composition, rotation, magnetics, ventality — all the figures

86

check out. The sun’s The Sun OK. What’s happened is that,
over the ages, one of its planets has disappeared, or blown
up, or gone chasing a tramp sun, or something. Funnier
things have happened.’

‘Let’s go and have a shufty, then,’ Mark Polo said. ‘Which
planet is missing?’

‘Third from The Sun,’ said Shipmind.

‘Third was always a tricky position,’ Gabitas said.

Jackson Paramour’s third son. Jack, closed ‘You Get More
By Being Nice’ and put it down in front of him. He had
enjoyed it. He found it a touching story. It told him much
about his mother, whom he could not remember as
well as his father. At least, the two main characters were
Johnny and Sheila, and he assumed they were really his
parents in literary disguise, since Johnny was a sculptor
who had never made good because of his artistic integrity
and Sheila was the most beautiful girl in the world. For the
first time. Jack found himself wishing he had known his
parents — ‘really known them’, as he phrased it — before the
world closed over their heads and their hopes.

Not a great deal happened in the novel. Most of it was set
on Shrivdale Farm, an idyllic place practising old-fashioned
dirt agriculture for the sake of tourists. Shrivdale was situ-
ated on the outskirts of Stringhove, Johnny and Sheila met
and fell in love on the farm. Later, when Johnny, on the
verge of suicide, unexpectedly inherited a fortune, he and
Sheila bought the farm and lived very happily there. They
reared lots of cows and three daughters.

Stringhove actually existed. Jack Paramour bought large-
scale maps of the area. Sure enough, the name Shrivdale
appeared there.

Jack resolved on a sentimental pilgrimage.

The crew had a ringside seat at one of the most amazing
views in the universe. The ‘Hamura Redon’ sailed in orbit
about The Sun’s biggest planet, the fourth from primary;
the ship had surrounded itself with a strong magnetic field
as protection against the blasts of radiation coming from
the planet.

(

87

At the present moment, the gas giant appeared in half-
phase. Its great streaked face loomed beyond the ports,
mantled with bands of grey, orange and salmon-pink. To
the south of the planetary equator was a curiously enig-
matic feature, an oblong expanse of an angry brick red hue
some forty thousand kilometres long.

Shipmind was busy rattling off endless series of figures
which flashed across the read-screens over the control
panels.

So much chemical fury boiling away outside kept the
men silent in awe. Finally, Gabitas said, ‘It seems we have
arrived just in time, according to Shipmind's reading. This
planet, Sol IV, is mostly composed of hydrogen. The spec-
troscope tells us that the cloud-belts weTe looking at consist
of hydrogen, deuterium, helium, methane and ammonia.
The planet's meteorology is internally-powered — it is radi-
ating 3.9 times more heat than it receives from The Sun,
and that figure is building up as is the emission of protons
and high-energy electrons.'

‘Then the sooner we get clear the better,' Pete Ulysses
said. ‘The implication is clear— this planet is unstable and is
about to transform into a miniature sun.'

‘ “About to'' is a relative term,' Gabitas said. ‘Certainly a
pseudonova condition is imminent, but that means, at the
least, some ten thousand years ahead of relative stability.'

Shipmind said, ‘A curious anomaly exists as regards the
great red spot. In its centre is a circular dark patch, some-
times obscured. You see it?'

‘I see it,' Gabitas said. ‘I thought at first it was an optical
illusion.'

‘My readings show that the red spot itself is a column of
heated gas blowing from the planetary interior. The black
patch is comprised of solid matter, and exists at a much
lower temperature. It would be possible for you, and not
especially dangerous, to fly the ferry down and land on the
black patch.'

‘Now why in hell's name should we want to do a crazy
thing like that ? ' Polo asked.

‘Because my readings suggest that the black patch is our
missing third planet, embedded in the face of the gas giant.'

88

Heavy rain had fallen the previous evening. This morning
was misty and dull. The ground was waterlogged. Within
five minutes of leaving his car. Jack Paramour was wading
across boggy ground, with peaty water pouring into his
shoes.

Nevertheless, this was Shrivdale Farm, or what was left
of it. He had his large-scale map in his hand, and the
precious copy of ‘You Get More By Being Nice' in his rain-
coat pocket. Although he knew where he was, it was still
difficult to orientate himself. The original drive way had
gone, wiped out by a small packaging factory. He had
approached obliquely, climbing through barbed wire, past a
barking dog. What had been remote countryside in his
father's day was now a glum stretch of non-country on the
outskirts of Stringhove, with thistle-choked fields and pol-
luted streams. No doubt the developers of Stringhove had
already parcelled up the rest of the open land with their fat
red grease pencils.

There were suburban homes all around, fenced, patched
with pretty strips of garden, the odd tennis court, the odd
swimming pool. Little girls sat on ponies. Lawn mowers
purred. Milkmen chuntered from door to door in square
vehicles.

All the same, the morning's fog did much to counteract
this lapse into genteel mediocrity. It lent mysteiy and a
vanishing perspective. Mist was indigenous here, like noth-
ing else.

He squelched over to a rank copse, consisting mainly of
beech and silver birch trees. He jumped a ditch, climbed
more wire, and was among the trees. He saw a small hut
ahead, very tumbledown. As he worked his way round to
the front of it, he found that an old car had been driven
into the hut for shelter. The wheels of the car had gone long
ago, and its every window was broken. This was a miser-
able spot where journeys died for lack of destination.

Paramour coughed a little. The noise reminded him to
light a cigarette. He smoked and thought, and listened to
the solitude. Despite the muffling effect of the fog, he could
hear traffic moving on two nearby roads. He had no sense

89

I

of escape, or of being back in the past, or of finding his
roots, or indeed of any vaguely hoped-for discovery.

Only then did the make of car register on him. It was a
Ford. He turned to the novel, pulling it from his raincoat
pocket, ruffling carefully through its pages. Johnny had
driven a Ford. At one crucial point in the story, Johnny had
driven into the market town of Stringhove to meet Doreen
and had chanced on her sister, Sheila, instead. That was
when the romance between Johnny and Sheila began. Of
course, it might not be the same car at all. The model was
not specified !

And the shed. The trees had grown up round it since. He
went out and looked more carefully at the ground. A track
had once run this way, fringed with laurel hedge. Then he
identified the shed; it was the apple store which featured in
Chapter Six. He was standing here, alone, smoking his
cigarette, at the very place where his parents had had that
monumental quarrel and then made love. If the sketchily
fictionalised account was to be trusted, it was on precisely
this waterlogged spot that he had been conceived, long ago.

He leaned against the ancient wood of the doorp)ost,
smoking his cigarette and trying to feel something pro-
found. The noise of the trafflc bothered him.

Five suited figures climbed from the ferry into a land-
scape that possessed the extreme beauty of ruination. Grey
smoke and drifting orange mist enshrouded them, while the
sky all round flickered with the poisons of the gas giant’s
atmosphere. Only a few miles to the north of them were
clusters of raging volcanoes, where the third planet’s core
was boiling itself off, donating its petty furies to the birth
of a new sun. But they trod relatively safe ground, pro-
tected from the furious heart of the giant by the planetary
bulk on which they walked. That planet bobbed high in the
gas giant’s atmosphere, buoyed by geysers of semi-liquid
gas under pressure.

Through their suit radios, Shipmind said casually, ‘My
readings suggest that the foreign body is sinking slowly
towards the core of the gas-giant. It will ultimately trigger
off a nova condition.’

90

‘Like a snowball sinking into a pot of treacle,’ Polo said.

There was little to be seen through the dense atmosphere.
They straggled out over the uneven ground, instinctively
looking for a focal point. In their helmets was the tremen-
dous roar of static, which no rectification system could
phase out. Underfoot, burnt out stumps of trees. Smoke still
drifted from some of the stumps.

It was slow going over the treacley ground. Gabitas
stumbled across a -low charred thing. He fumbled at it,
walked round it, shining his beam. His slow nightmare
movements almost persuaded him he was underwater.

He had happened on a machine of some sort. Part of the
metal had been molten, and was now cool again, its original
shape bleared and distorted. He heaved at the whole thing,
but it did not budge. He stooped, examining one end. There
was an emblem of some sort, still reasonably intact because
it lay against the ground. Activating the manual servo-
mechanism, Gabitas wrenched at the emblem and got it
free. It said: FORD. It must have meant something to
someone. The third planet had probably been inhabited. He
stuffed the artefact into a pocket of his suit and straight-
ened up.

The orange mists seemed to be closing in. Overhead, there
was flame in the sky.

‘Better get back to the ferry,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing
here.’

A friendly asexual being was saying, with its arm round
Jack Paramour’s shoulders, something he could not under-
stand.

‘What did you say?’

It sounded like, ‘Searching for roots may be necessary but
remember that flowers do not blossom underground.’ Para-
mour was confused and woke resentfully. He tried to
struggle back to that mysterious conversation. It had fled.

Eventually he sat up and found himself refreshed. Climb-
ing out of bed he yawned and went across to the window.

The sun shone outside. There lay Silaria, like a dream.

(

91

i

i

y

1

i

LONG TIME AGO, NOT FORGOTTEN

by

Bob Van Laerhoven
Translated by
LES S. CORNWELL

Out in the galaxy among the multitudes oi stars
where the pure immutable laws of astronomical logic
hold sway, out there in the cold depths, can there be
a place for ordinary human emotions? Can love and
regret and selfishness and self-sacrifice survive? Being
human ourselves, we believe they can. But what if
emotions exist between people who are not ordinary
humans? Why should the inner life of a being who
is not — quite — human be stifled because he finds
difficulty in easy self-expression through the artful
device of language? Would these people not have to
find a special niche in society, and if, at the end, they
found darker forces more powerful than they could
realise, might they not act with sorrow and dignity
made more profound by their very need for easy
self-expression?

(

LONG TIME AGO, NOT FORGOTTEN

My ship was not very big

But then I still needed room and you couldn't say circus
could afford top-class-ships, not even for a star with a tail
like me.

The bed was big enough.

The anti-g plates floated about fifteen inches above the
floor and they were strong. They had to carry my weight.

And Claire was beautiful too.

Strictly speaking she had an ordinary human body but
she was smooth all over.

I thought she was beautiful and that was enough.

I never asked her if I hurt her when we made love. It's a
pity I didn't but I don't think so, 'cause I was adapted by
human surgeons.

One thing is sure: I would have suffocated her at
standard gravity.

But control of gravity has its charms.

She always said the hard bristle, my tail was, tickled her.

And if you add all these things up, I still don't know why
she loved me.

Yet I believe she did.

That night she caressed my fur with her active hands and
I was sighing satisfied.

‘All those tiny hairs and such an enormous moustache,'
she giggled and pulled my long yellow-brown whiskers.
‘Later on I'll be itching everywhere.'

‘Horrible!' I growled and swished jaunty with my tail.
‘Say, things don't go bad here, do they. Still, a lousy planet.'

We looked through the window at a saffron coloured
sky. Gulju II (and what a lousy name for a lousy planet)

(

95

\

never had a real night. The sky varied from a clear orange
to that dark saffron-like colour.

Tell me, Gorath,’ she said at last. 'What are you really
doing in circus? What are you looking for?’

Normally circus-folks didn’t ask such questions. Circus is
a closed community where outcasts find equals. Our love
for example wasn’t discussed by our colleagues.

However, I didn’t want to hide anything from her.

I sniffed thoughtfully.

'Circus is excitement,’ I said. 'In a way: free. Always
free.’

'You were not free before?’

'Reservations, you mean? No spirit. Not sure. Maybe I
was. What brought you to circus?’

I thought that, after my answer, I too had the right to ask
that.

A shadow darkened her face, or maybe it was just an
expression, but before I could interpret, it vanished.

‘Me? I devour emotions,’ she said. 'You must take a look
at the audience when one of us risks his life on stage. They
all hope to witness a terrible accident. They’re all sitting on
the edge of their chair and consciously or not they hope to
see some blood. But when that doesn’t happen, they laugh
and clap hands because all at once they feel well so that
they can believe how nice and lovely they really are.
You’ve got a lovely grin with those teeth, you know. Well,
that’s why I joined the circus. I’m alive ! ’

Her explanation didn’t satisfy me but I left it as it was.

'I believe we’re all kind of horrors.’ I yawned.

'Everyone in this mad universe is a little balmy. The only
difference between us and normal people is that we know
it.’

‘Philosophy is not my strongest side,’ I sighed and turned
on my back on the weightless sleeping-plates. I wished my
vocal chords were better.

Then I could say more and nicer things.

She stroked the white thick fur on my chest.

'Roar again for me, Brutus,’ she whispered.

The pneumo-tent was packed to capacity with natives of

96

Gulju II. According to me, they stank; but business is busi-
ness said our manager and he wasn’t averse to anything.

The robo-band played a few tunes which, through cun-
ningly planned energy-paths in the seats of the audience,
excited them.

I pushed my nose through the curtains. I didn’t like that
crowd.

Their smell was too refined for me, too sly.

But who, except a circus, wanted someone like me ?

The robo-band did its best to burst a dozen eardrums
when Breakbones came in.

A giant is big, but Breakbones is bigger.

He was a mutie from Cargenas V. He wasn’t really a
human being.

He looked like one but he had more arms and four legs
under his knees.

He broke a few duranium bars just to warm himself up
and juggled a while with gravity-discs. He threw them high
up and just caught them again. But when they reached their
highest point their weight was automatically doubled. And
the clap they made when they hit his hands could be heard
from more than a mile. To convince the audience he just let
one of the discs drop and it drilled itself about five inches in
the ground. That was rather sensational.

After that a strange apparatus was rolled into the ring. It
was a platform with an enormous hammer on it. The
handle of the hammer was flexible and was pulled back-
wards. It was held in its place by a strong power-field. The
head of the sledge was a massive cube of duranium.

Breakbones went and stood in a white circle at a short
distance from the apparatus while the manager explained
the rules of the game. It always was as still as a mouse,
then. If the handle of the hammer suddenly was let loose,
the head would swish forwards with tremendous speed.
Breakbones stood precisely on the spot where the head
would drop. The audience was able to deactivate the power-
field. Every button on the side of their seats, pushed in,
meant an abatement of the field. The more buttons pressed
at the right signal, the more power would be behind the
forward movement of the hammer.

!

97

Breakbones was ready. His hands were spread. His legs
were looking for the best position. Drums were beaten
violently. A few times the chest of the artist went up and
down fiercely. It seemed impossible that even someone like
him could retain that falling violence.

Then the bell rang. The timing of the audience always
was good. The head of the hammer jumped forwards nearly
faster than the eye could follow and hit flesh with a sicken-
ing slap.

Breakbones staggered but quickly recovered. The head of
the hammer rested in his hands like a formless and gigantic
child.

Thus, the spectators weren’t rewarded for their trouble.

After that he raised a spherical creature from Indura on a
trailer. The monster wasn’t very big but extremely heavy.
In the lighter gravity of Gulju II, and most planets we
visited, it had to be carefully kept alive with special medi-
cines; but that the audience didn’t know.

It roared very well and that was important. Of course,
Breakbones could have taken a mechanical weight, but an
animal was better.

The spectators always appreciated the victory of a
human — or in this case a humanoid — over an animal.

Conducted by the false music of our robo’s and smash-
ing hand-clapping Breakbones left the ring proud and
happy.

One day his muscles will lose their strength and even if
Breakbones still lives a hundred years thereafter, he never
will be someone anymore.

The audience is all he has.

And then it was Thoruf’s turn, the black magician. The
success of old Thoruf varied while Breakbones always had
applause. But the man did his best.

The tent became a black universe when all the lights went
out. A few half apprehensive shrieks were heard. It always
was like that.

An echoing clap — the hi-fi crackled badly — and a few red
spotlights in a star shaped figure were lit.

Slowly Thoruf became visible. His long beard and glitter-
ing eyes did well this time. I heard the reactions of the

98

spectators and smiled. Thoruf made a crafty use of reflec-
tion-effects to make sparkling discs of his eyes.

But he was a teleporter too.

He projected a snake from nowhere into the red bubble.

It was poisonous.

It became nervous by the applause of the audience and
its head flew forwards like the tongue of a ’lectrowhip.

The public shouted dutifully but the snout of the serpent
never reached Thoruf. It was gone. OOOOHHH ! they all
cried.

This troop appreciated ‘magic’.

Then several silver dishes descended while more and
more red light came into the tent.

The dishes landed softly in the sand of the arena and on
each of them a grinning demon-head appeared. It always
took a few exacting hours of our make-up man to knead
the tough syntho-tissue to the right shape.

The hidden loudspeakers in their big skulls whispered
their infamous words and Thoruf stared at them.

He didn’t have to let them disappear yet. He raised his
arms, well timed, and pronounced an incantation for the
sake of good order.

A chemical reaction in the heads made them inflame
right on time.

Slowly and flaming, Thoruf teleported them upwards,
and that was very imposing.

After that he dived from quite a height and vanished a
second before he would have been smashed to death, and
became visible again on an empty seat in the middle of the
audience. His coat made a nice effect when he fell like that.

He retired while the spectators applauded.

After that Afna came, the firegirl.

My paws always were ready for her because she was
rather helpless. Her flames didn’t burn. On her homeplanet
they served only for decoration. She could make all figures
and many colours with them. Afna was not completely
human, but she looked like one. Many things with a big
brain— they’re not always intelligent— look like human be-
ings.

I didn’t.

(

99

Her appearance always was quite successful ’cause
humans are possessed by fire. I don’t know why, I only
know 1 don’t like fire myself.

Every time, the show exhausted her; but she was happy
when she could faint behind the curtains. The audience was
hers for one moment and that’s a lot for someone who
never really had anything.

Then I laid my paw on her and her strength came back.

After that it was Claire’s turn and of course 1 loved her.

But I didn’t understand her act.

She walked in a balloon of golden light to the middle of
the ring and the buzzers of the robos heightened their in-
tensity.

There she stood motionless for about a quarter of an hour
while the crowd yelled, applauded, jumped up, sat down,
laughed and gasped for breath.

1 didn’t understand ’cause in my eyes she was only Claire
and she stayed Claire who stood upright for a quarter of an
hour.

But I didn’t want to be curious anymore.

I thought she did something with human minds, some-
thing different from what 1 did myself. Her act was good
enough according to the reactions of the public, and that
was that.

She smiled at me every time she came behind the cur-
tains, accompanied by a medley of applause and music.

Then she kissed me on my forehead, and pulled my lower
lip down playfully.

‘Well, eat ’em, Brutus,’ she said and I heard her giggle
when I strolled easily into the arena.

The instructions were bawled around by the micro-
phones. The onlookers were asked to get up. They couldn’t.
With my mind I pushed them back in their seats and I
smiled deeply with their astonished gasping and shrieking.
Then 1 pulled one or two of them off their seats and made
them do a few harmless things. They walked ten paces for-
ward and then ten back again, they whirled with their
arms, laughed, cried, roared and jumped around like fools.
The audience laughed. They love clowns and especially un-
prepared and forced ones.

lOO

The monster Breakbones had picked up a few moments
ago was brought back again and was irritated with a few
violent ’lectroshocks.

It came rushing up to me and the audience yelled nearly
in panic.

I hit the beast’s nearly empty brain with my mind when
it was at a distance of less than five metres and it stopped as
if it had crashed against an enormous wall.

It howled to the -invisible moon and the spectators held
their breath. It was a ghostly, lamenting, accusatory sound
of another world, of another kind of life and it usually
moved them deeply. I felt sympathy— maybe respect— for
that animal that couldn’t think. It reminded me of my own
youth and of something else too, something dark. I always
was ashamed that an intelligent animal like me had to treat
a fellow that way, but the audience liked it.

After that I conjured some rubbish in their brains and
jumped, as a variation of Thoruf, from a great height to the
ground. The spectators were sure I would vanish like the
magician but that didn’t happen. At about five metres
above the ground, just when people began to shriek, I
wanted my weight to be that of a feather. The strange
powers humans call ‘gravity’ understood me and I floated
lightly above the sand.

Conducted by OOH ! and AAH ! and loud sighings I de-
scended slowly.

That was it.

I pulled my lips back, showed my teeth and shook my
head. Then I strolled out of the ring.

Claire laughed at me that evening.

‘You kept it brief tonight,’ she said. ‘Didn’t you like it?’

‘Lousy crowd,’ I answered. ‘Smelled like death. Leeches
pricked my mind. Wanted to see purple, red and THIS.’

I showed her one of my claws and quickly she tickled the
brushes under it.

Those moments I wished I could laugh; but my vocal

chords weren’t good enough.

‘They want to see and go through everything,’ she said,
calmly. ‘Come on, let’s forget it. We’ll go and eat some-
thing. It’s been enough for today. Say, are you really going

f

lOI

to devour ten pounds of meat AGAIN ? You’ll become a fat
and lazy lion, you know.’

‘Hmmffff/ I sneezed. ‘My stomach is bigger than yours,
baby.’

The night brought us lightning.

And the lightning was inside my head.

There was a flash of a dark etching against the yellow
brown sky of Gulju II.

Black natives with pointed things on their heads and long
clothes.

And the naut which charges hit me and kept hitting me.

After that came the big muzzle of emptiness.

And later on, waking up.

I shook my head and bit inside at the pain upon it.

It disappeared slowly and I howled.

The place next to me was empty.

I sniffed and recognised her scent, together with the
rancid fragrance of the folks of Gulju II.

The track was clear and my rage big.

I followed it through the steppe-like environs and I re-
membered vaguely the reservation like a bio-film hidden
inside me.

I left the grey pointed city behind. The trace led me to a
few soft round hills in the East.

The silver moon of Gulju II was rising and the ale-
coloured light with the black edges improved my sight.

I found them in the shrubs at the foot of the highest
hill.

The moon stood right above a statue. It had to be a statue
because it didn’t move, neither did it smell.

The natives grouped around it and I spotted Claire in
their middle.

My whiskers trembled and my body entreated me to use
my claws but my created mind forbade me.

There was something strange in the air, something wrong.

Claire didn’t seem afraid and yet this had to be some
sacrifice. The cloaks, the grotesque pointed hats, the mono-
tonous singing that tormented my ears . . .

102

I pushed my soft belly in the sand and strained my
muscles.

Then I jumped in their middle and they drew their nauts.
Claire shouted but I didn’t pay any attention to it and be-
fore they could use their weapons I stupefied them with my

mind.

They stood still and I knew they wouldn’t move until I
permitted them to.

‘Don’t do it, Gorath, DON’T DO IT,’ Claire softly said at
once and then I fixed a part of my mind at her.

‘What do you mean?’

‘To keep up,’ she answered, ‘please, don’t keep it up. Do
you remember last night when you asked me why I joined
the circus ? ’

‘Yes.’

‘I didn’t tell you the truth. I’m not human, Gorath. I
don’t even look like one.’

‘You’ve got a human body.’

‘Because you want me to. That strong, proud mind of
yours, Gorath . . . You were thinking of a human body be-
cause you have a human mind. When I met you, I became
one. That powerful mind of yours FORCED me into this
shape. The other circus people see me as something else,
something THEY want to see, but I asked them not to tell
you. They didn’t because they knew I love you, Gorath.’

‘Come with me, then.’

‘No . . . You always wondered what I really did during
my act ... Yes, I know that. You were curious but you
didn’t ask me because you respected the unwritten law of
the circus. I haven’t got a real shape, Gorath. For the
audience I was what they wanted to see, everything and at
the same time.’

‘You have shape for ME,’ I snarled, frightened.

‘Your mind.’ She smiled with silverblack trembling lips.

‘Your strong, magnificent mind always tied me up in this
shape, every time you saw me. Sometimes you even forced
me in this shape when you couldn’t see me but were think-
ing of me. That was a strange experience for me, Gorath,
and you were thinking a lot of me. I love the shape you

103

gave me with your human mind, Gorath, like I love you
and the power you have inside.’

‘Come with me, then,’ I said again; but I felt it was use-
less.

‘I can’t, Gorath,’ she answered. ‘Look at that statue. They
are my race. In the past we were dispersed over several
planets for reasons you would never understand. We’ve
been looking for each other to embrace our final shape as a
group. When we’re alone we’re shapeless; but with the
group it’s different. This statue nearly is our final shape and
I’m the only one who’s missing. My race traced my special
aura on this planet and sent these natives who worship
them as a god. Do you NOW understand why I came to
circus ? Strange organisms don’t attract attention there and
I had the chance to search the planets. Humans or
humanoids usually are very severe with non-humanoids,
except in circus.’

‘For me you HAVE shape,’ I said, obstinately.

‘You still don’t understand, Gorath, you don’t WANT TO.
I’m the missing link for the completion of the shape. We
don’t have a shape of ourselves because we’re links in a
greater whole, but now we’re able to live our own life. I
must go . . . darling . . .’

I looked at the statue. It wasn’t human, neither a shape I
knew, but it was beautiful to look at.

And incomplete, I could feel in one way. It seemed like a
kind of . . . question ...

‘I’d like to stay with you,’ she said and she laid her hand
upon my head, ‘because you, Gorath, have the essential of
life: you love. But my race has been waiting for a long,
long time and I can’t take their life. You understand that,
big, strong darling, don’t you?’

I stared at the statue that would take so much away from
me. At once I felt I was only an animal. An animal with a
mind and unhappy. When I saw Claire the first time, I
could have given her the shape of a lioness, but my mind . . .

‘Circus lonely place to live,’ I said laboriously, ‘all fools,
horrors and outcasts. What am I going to do? Why me?
Tired of planets, tired of myself. Be lonely. Why do you
have human body? Damned mind. Why love for you?’

104

‘Because you can give everything, Gorath,’ her silver-
black lips whispered.

‘Help me to do the same.’

I showed my teeth. A sudden burst of rage hit me and the
natives in my mental grip trembled and groaned.

‘I’m only beast,’ I growled. ‘In spite of mind, only beast,
ril never gain love of human being. You’ve been playing
with me.’

A tear rolled over her nearly-golden cheeks like a fluid
pearl and my rage decreased. She didn’t answer and a spear
of pain hit me between my paws through my heart.

I didn’t want to persevere. It would hurt her more than
me.

Her race was lost without her and so was I.

But I was a king. I could and had to bear. And she would
soon forget, would be picked up in a greater whole and
forget.

I bowed my head and she kneeled for me and kissed my
snout.

I felt I wasn’t made for human love and yet I desired
it.

The humans have done something strange with me. They
should ’ve left me alone in the reservations where I was a
real king, because I didn’t know . . .

Now, I’m just a big lion who can play games with others
with his mind and who can talk more or less. A genetic
experiment that ended otherwise.

A clown. An attraction. A freak.

And yet I could bear it.

‘Roar one more time for me, Brutus,’ she said softly and
tenderly.

She was crying and the words seemed wrong.

She stroked my moustache and I wished I could cry too.

I couldn’t.

I looked at the silver moon and hung my head down-
wards to the ground.

I roared and the sound reverberated against the sand, un-
dulated over the hills and lost itself in a wall of stars

Now I’m in a laboratory.

105

• • •

Fm waiting. 1

I pay them well to take that human mind away from me 1

again. 1

I loved circus. I

I love Claire. |

io6

ZONE

by

Peter Linnett

After the jolly undertakings of his When I Die
in New Writings in SF 24, Peter Linnett here turns
to a subject of equal horror^ but he treats this story
in an entirely different fashion. This must appear as
one answer to the problem presented by Vera John-
son in The day they cut off the power’, an answer,
one suspects, that would be welcomed with great
ardour in various quarters. The two stories present
two different solutions, their yin and yang, however,
pointing out with terrifying clarity that there yet
remain other solutions . . .

1

;

I

]

t;. '■

.at

’'iMi

■^-<rytcA

ZONE

Stenman had insisted on driving him along the stretch of
country that lay between his sector offices and the city. ‘Fm
responsible for everyone going into Farnaran/ he had said,
ignoring Prentiss’s plea that he could make his own way.

Now they were five minutes from the outskirts, and
Prentiss found his heart beating faster. He still remembered
the odd news reports about Farnaran from some years
back. In his capacity as a freelance science writer he had
been invited to spend two weeks lecturing in psychology at
Farnaran’s university. After that he would move on.

Stenman scratched his beard. ‘I realise you wanted to
come by yourself, Mr. Prentiss. Since the sectors were insti-
gated we’ve all become a little suspicious of one another.
It’s the mood of the times.’ He looks like a cowboy, thought
Prentiss — ^brown and muscled, nothing like a sector adminis-
trator.

They were passing an autodump. Prentiss gazed silently
at this ironic monument to technology; his own country
did not yet have to contend with them. ‘That doesn’t mean
we have to like it.’

‘We’re almost at the city now.’

The sprinkling of houses and shops outside the city limits
were deserted. Prentiss had half-expected to see barbed
wire, but there was nothing menacing here. They pulled up
outside a barrier with a small office alongside. A man wear-
ing a quasi-military uniform emerged and began to
approach the car.

Stenman turned to Prentiss. ‘Give this guy the card I gave

you and you’re through. OK?’

‘Thanks for your help, Mr. Stenman.’ He grabbed his bags
and got out. Stenman lifted his hand in farewell, did a U-

109

turn and drove off. Prentiss found himself facing the man in
uniform.

‘Your authorisation, please.*

He fumbled in his pockets for the yellow card and
pushed it towards the official. It seemed to satisfy him; he
raised the barrier and handed the card back. Prentiss
walked through.

Farnaran was a grey, dull city, and there was a drab,
functional feel about its buildings. Nevertheless Prentiss felt
an uneasy, steely atmosphere in the air. First, though, he
had to get to the university. A passer-by gave him direc-
tions; it was only some two hundred yards away.

The university’s several buildings looked like a set of
office blocks. He crossed a wide square, surrounded by the
buildings, where students were milling. Sliding doors
opened at his approach; he went to the reception desk and
asked for Professor Sarris, who had invited him. He was
lecturing, and someone was brought to take him to wait in
Sarris’s office. They went up three floors in a lift and along a
corridor before reaching Sarris’s small, book-filled office. It
faced out on to the square.

He dropped his bags on the floor and waited. Five
minutes later the door opened. Before him was a man he
took to be Sarris — he had never met him, but they had
carried on an intermittent correspondence. Much taller
than Prentiss, he had cropped black hair and narrow eyes,
was wearing a sweater and jeans.

‘Greg Prentiss?’ Smiling, he extended his hand. ‘They told
me you were here — it’s marvellous to see you. Excuse the
outfit, I joined in on a basketball game this morning,
haven’t had time to change.’

‘It’s marvellous to be here, Charles.’ Sarris was coming
across as ebullient as on paper.

‘Look, first I’ll take you to your apartment — right next
door to the Uni, in fact. Then you’ll want to be shown
around. Luckily I’ve the rest of the day free.’

The apartment was large and comfortable; Prentiss de-
posited his bags there. They had lunch and then, beginning
with the university, Sarris took him on a Cook’s tour of the

no

city which left Prentiss considerably depressed. There was
nothing in Farnaran worth seeing. Later they stopped to
rest in a park (the only one in the city), and Prentiss casu-
ally mentioned the reports from the city he had read some
years ago.

Sarris suddenly sat up. ‘You mean the Red Zone. I’m sur-
prised you mention it. My God, I wish I was there instead

of here ! ’

‘Why, for heaven’s, sake ? ’

‘It’s said to be a paradise! Don’t you know the story?
Six, seven years ago now, a group of young people saw that
this sector of city land was unused, and got permission to
take it over ... It’s all so vague, the Zone has become
almost mythical. It’s— well, an alternative society, without
our pressures or worries.’

‘But how do they live? What do they do?’

‘They grow crops. They don’t live in a concrete city,
Greg. They live off the earth, off nature — several hundred
of them. Very occasionally I think they let someone else
through. Officials and journalists have visited the place and
come back unbelievably enthusiastic. Greg, they’ve bridged
the gap between man and animal. The alternative society
works ! ’

Sarris’s naive enthusiasm seemed to be genuine; Prentiss
wanted to know more, but Sarris seemed unprepared to tell
him much. ‘Is there any chance of seeing it, Charles? I’d be
most interested and grateful if you could arrange it.’

‘I’ve no authority, Greg — ^believe me, if I could get
through. I’d have done so by now. It’s a few miles in a
westerly direction — I can’t tell you much more than that,
details are closely guarded. We can’t have things upended
by people always taking off to the Zone. Most of us have
succeeded in pushing it to the back of our minds by now.
There was publicity a few years ago, but not now. But by
all means walk around; I guess there’s no harm in that . .

Next morning— a Saturday— Prentiss did just that. He
strolled vaguely around the city for most of the day. After
reading the reports whose contents Sarris had brought back
to him he had not thought of Farnaran at all, even after

III

beginning the correspondence with Sarris. Now he found
his interest aroused; he would begin to do a little detective
work . . .

He got no farther than the commercial landscape that
composed most of Farnaran. In the evening he returned to
his apartment and slept until late next morning.

He was surprised to find his students highly responsive
and imaginative, and his lectures on Maslow and Fromm
went over well. At the end of one lecture he mentioned the
Zone and a hubbub began. Everyone was talking at once.

‘I wish we could go there.’

‘That’s something I’ll bet you don’t have back home.
Sir . . .’

‘One day we’ll all be able to live there.’

And so the Zone came to dominate his thoughts again.
One day, after his last lecture, he set out in the direction
Sarris had mentioned.

Once again all he could see were office blocks. These
gradually gave way to a residential district. Prentiss noticed
a helicopter flying over the city. He passed one or two fac-
tories and began to feel disorientated, but kept walking.
After forty-five minutes he stumbled on to a cleared area.
He heard the sound of the helicopter, and began to walk
more quickly. A huge wall loomed in the distance, and he
headed for it. Like that of a factory, it seemed to stretch
farther than he could see. It had no doors. Struggling to
assimilate it, he decided to head back, and retraced his steps
until he came once again to a residential district.

The helicopter had disappeared.

His next attempt came later that week. Occasionally he
went to Sarris’s bachelor apartment in the evenings, and
chose a night when he had nothing planned.

The night was cold; there was no one about. He pulled
his jacket closer to him. In the dark he was unsure of which
direction in which to head, but kept moving, not having the
courage to stop. His footsteps echoed around him. After
continuing for half an hour in the eerie gloom he slowed.

II2

and his heart began pounding as he saw the wall ahead of
him.

A hundred yards away a car zoomed past. Prentiss
huddled in a corner, looked to left and right. It was too
dark for him to see anyone, but neither could they see him.
Without stopping to think he walked across the road and
began to move down along the wall. Touching it, he found
it to be thin, almost tinny. It made a hollow noise when he
knocked on it. He could not see an entrance. One hundred
yards further on he came to what appeared to be an aban-
doned building. The wall turned at an angle, coincided with
the side of the building and appeared to run on ... he could
go no further.

There was a sound from inside the building, followed by
heavy footsteps. Prentiss tried to edge in to the small space
between the branching wall and the building.

The man came closer, suddenly turned to where Prentiss
was standing. ‘You,’ he said.

Prentiss had no choice; he stepped out. Before him was a
policeman wearing a crash helmet, tight black trousers and
jacket. ‘Are you a visitor?’ he asked.

‘Yes, I’m ’

‘You’re unfamiliar with our ways, and you were just
resting. You’d lost your way.’ All this in a low monotone.

‘That’s right ’

The policeman held up a hand. ‘I think you’d better come
and explain yourself at HQ. Come on.’ He turned, confident
that Prentiss would follow.

Something clicked inside Prentiss’s mind. He lifted a foot
and pushed as hard as he could. The policeman toppled to
the ground. Prentiss ran back the way he had come; he did
not hear the policeman following. Then something flicked
past his shoulder and vanished — the bastard was going to
try to floor him. Head down, he crossed the road, past
houses and shops. Behind him the small pellets were hitting
the ground; now he could hear the policeman running. The
sound of his boots clicking against the pavement echoed
down the street.

Prentiss turned into an alleyway and kept running, com-
ing out on a street .on the other side. Ten minutes later he

113

r

saw the university ahead of him, its square lit up. He
stopped and looked behind him. No one was there — the
policeman must have given up.

Back at his apartment he discovered that one of the
policeman's pellets had torn through his trouser leg, missing
his thigh by a fraction of an inch.

The first person he saw at the university next morning
was Sards, who looked worried. ‘Could we talk in my
office?’ he asked. ‘It’s important, Greg.’

Sards said nothing as they pushed through the students
crowding the corridors to the lift. When they were safely
inside the office he began immediately : ‘Greg, there’s been
a report that someone was behaving suspiciously near the
Zone last night. Apparently a policeman followed him but
gave up when he realised how few visitors there are here —
all can be brought together quite easily. After all, only a
visitor would be snooping round the Zone.’

Prentiss kept a straight face. ‘And?’

‘Well, you and a few others will be asked to come to
police HQ so that this chap can identify whoever it was.
I’ve been asked to tell you this as I’m responsible for your
safety. Greg — you don’t mind if I ask, do you — ^was it you ?
Please don’t think . . .’

‘No, Charles, it wasn’t me; I wouldn’t be that stupid.
What’ll happen to the person concerned?’

‘He’ll be asked to leave and his superiors, if any, will be
informed of his actions. Things may be made rather tough
for him. It’s just a matter of going along to prove you aren’t
their man. You should receive a communication from HQ
today, and they’ll send someone to pick you up. In plain
clothes, of course.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Time to begin
lecture numero uno, eh?’

They both headed for the door. Prentiss said, ‘I don’t like
it, Charles. Why keep a policeman at the Zone, and what
could a visitor ’

Sarris cut him short. ‘Don’t ask me, Greg. I don’t make
the rules.’

The summons was handed to him in a plain brown en-

velope as he came out of the morning’s last lecture. It read :
‘You are required for an identification session at Farnaran
Police Headquarters. The reason will have been explained
to you. A white car will be waiting for you’ . . . the words
outside the University at j.jo p.m. had been inked in on the
printed card . . . ‘Please give this card to the driver.’

There was only one thing to do now.

At 12.30 he walked across the university square and out
into the street. He went to his apartment, packed his bags
and retrieved the yellow card which he hoped would get
him through the barrier. Then he made his way down to
the street.

Luckily he remembered the way he had to go. Nervously
fingering the revolver in his coat pocket he headed for the
checkpoint. Already he could feel his stomach shrinking to
an uncomfortable knot.

Once he panicked and involuntarily began to run, but
quickly checked himself. The streets were crowded — it was
the lunch hour — and he tried not to let his unease show in
his face. When at last he reached the checkpoint he saw a
uniformed man — not the one he had met previously —
standing by a white car parked next to the office adjoining
the barrier. Now or never. He walked over and produced
his card.

‘What do you want ? ’ the man asked.

‘I’m leaving. Open the barrier, please.’

‘We had no word. The sector’s sent no car. Who are

you?’

‘I’m a visitor, and ’

‘Mister, I can’t let you through — you should know that.
I’d better get someone to take you to HQ.’

Prentiss cursed under his breath. He knew he had no
choice.

The man went into his office and spoke to someone on
the phone. Then he came and stood by Prentiss until five
minutes later a police car pulled up. He opened the pas-
senger door and Prentiss got in. They drove back through
the city’s main thoroughfare; the policeman driving said
nothing until he stopped outside a tall grey building. ‘Right.
We’re here.’ Prentiss followed the policeman, who had

US

grasped him by the elbow, into this vast building. They
went up in a lift and along a series of corridors to an empty
room. He was told to wait there, and the door was closed.

The room was bare apart from two wooden chairs —
suspiciously like an interrogation chamber, Prentiss
thought. Before long a short man in a white shirt and grey
trousers came in and sat opposite Prentiss. Tour name,
please.’

He gave it.

‘Oh? Aren’t you needed for an ID parade this afternoon?
Why this sudden desire to leave our beautiful city?’ His
voice had suddenly hardened.

‘I wanted to leave. Do I need to say more?’

‘Here you do, Mr. Prentiss. You didn’t get in easily, did
you? Did you expect to click your fingers and get out just
like that?’

Prentiss said nothing.

‘You’ve been behaving very suspiciously. And you’re
interested in our paradise behind the wall, 1 believe — some-
one is. Their society may work better than ours, but never-
theless we want to keep ours going . . . you follow?’

‘I think so. Believe me, my interest isn’t malevolent.’

‘So it was you who ran from our man last night.’

Prentiss bit his lip. ‘Yes.’

The man stood up. ‘O.K., Mr. Prentiss, we won’t keep you
very long.’

He went out, leaving the door open. Evidently they were
well inside the building.

Obviously — ^visitor or not — he would be charged with
resisting, if not arrest, then something like it. He stood up
and went to the door; the corridor was empty. He picked
up his bags, took another quick look — there were stairs at
the far end. He ran along the corridor and began leaping
down three stairs at a time. They had come up higher than
he thought, and the flights seemed endless. He passed two
men in suits who glanced at him but made no move to stop
him. By the time he passed through the main doors and out
into the street he felt winded.

He headed west, with the revolver still in his pocket.

ii6

The time he took to get to the Zone felt shorter than it
must actually have been. Before long he saw the wall.
Coming to the turning, where the wall met the building, he
saw a door and looked through the section of glass set into
it. Nothing. He tried the handle : the door was locked. He
took the revolver from his pocket and smashed in the glass;
it was not too difficult to reach and unlatch the lock.

The door opened, and he found himself in a large, semi-
dark room. Before he could move he heard scuffling several
yards away. ‘You Sergeant Cooke?’ someone called.

Prentiss hesitated. ‘Yes.’

‘You’ll pay for that glass. Now come and give us a hand
with these two, they’re bloody difficult.’

He gripped his revolver and moved forward. Just then
the door opened a few inches more, throwing a lance of
light across his body.

‘You’re not Cooke ! ’

There were four men, two policemen handcuffed to two
other men. The policemen squinted in the half-light for a
moment. One of the handcuffed men whirled and smashed
his fist into his captor’s face, then his stomach. The police-
man collapsed, bringing his captive with him. The other
policeman hesitated, and his captive leapt, drew his arm
across the man’s neck and squeezed. Prentiss ran forward
and brought his revolver down on the policeman’s skull.
Both he and his captive collapsed. The others were strug-
gling; Prentiss braced himself and repeated the act.

One of the captives said : ‘God ! Who are you?’

‘Let’s just say I’m an inquisitive type ... Is this the Red
Zone?’

‘We had a militant group at the University,’ the other
said. Both were young, plainly-dressed, conventional look-
ing. ‘Sentence : an indefinite spell in the Red Zone. Let’s get
these handcuffs off.’ Prentiss bent and fumbled for the keys
in the policemens’ pockets, and unlocked the cuffs.

‘Now we’ll chain them up.’ During this the two men re-
mained silent. Prentiss said, ‘Can we get into the Zone? I
was told it was a ’

‘ — ^paradise? So were we, man, so were we. The bastards.
Are you a visitor?’

117

‘Later. Look, can we get through?*

They were about to take us through that corridor over
there* — he pointed to it — ‘when you came in. But first . . .*
He bent and picked out the walkie-talkies the policemen
had tucked into their belts, and placed them in his pockets.
‘We don*t want them calling their buddies when they
wake.*

‘Let*s go.* They moved off down the narrow corridor.
Two minutes later they came to a dead-end; a large man-
hole was set into the concrete floor. The three of them
pulled at it; nothing happened. Then Prentiss found it had
to be unscrewed, like a bottletop. When they had removed
the heavy object they saw stairs leading down into dark-
ness, and descended cautiously. At the bottom they
fumbled in the darkness until they reached another set of
stairs, which led upwards. There was light further up.

They came out on to some kind of large compound, and
stood blinking in the half-light for several seconds. Then
they saw the people. There were hundreds of them, haggard
and thin, standing about in groups. In the distance were
walls rising to unscalable heights. Several large huts were
situated about one hundred yards away. For a moment time
seemed suspended; no one moved. At last some of the
people noticed them, and began murmuring among them-
selves.

‘They*ll think we*re police,* said one of the men. ‘You*re
free!* he yelled. ‘You*re free, you can come through!
You*re free!’ Prentiss gasped and wanted to vomit as the
smell of the place hit him.

The people had formed a block and were beginning to
approach them. Their clothes hung loosely on their bodies
and some had hair down to their waists. As they came
closer Prentiss noticed the way some of their mouths hung
open, the pleading look in their eyes. Most of them were
young, and looked half-starved.

Nevertheless, as it neared them the crowd gathered
momentum; it seemed to be moving as a single mind.
Prentiss saw that it would be impossible to stop.

The figures in the first row suddenly broke into a run, and
the rest followed. Prentiss and the two men had to scatter

ii8

or they would have been trampled. Something hit Prentiss
hard in the stomach; he fell to the ground, and for the next
five minutes saw through misty eyes a steady stream of legs
moving past without a break. When he was able to get up
the compound was empty save for a few isolated figures
who lay groaning on the ground. Scraps of clothing were
scattered around. The wind blew dust across the compound.

Then it began to rain, and he saw a helicopter flying low
towards the compound. It was time to leave. As he made
his way down through the exit, he heard the thud of
parcels hitting the bare earth.

V

V f

t

V

HEATWAVE

by

David Langford

The statement that a computer is only as smart as
the people who design, program and operate it,
although it is quicker, has become a truism in most
people's minds. That the academic and bureaucratic
way of life tends to stifle creativity is a belief that
may not be so easily recognised. Faced with facts
and various lurid phenomena that lead to a con-
clusion the human mind cannot tolerate, the mind
will seek alternatives, become deranged, will reso-
lutely refuse to see. The only sensible thing left to
do, of course, as the flames roar higher, is to laugh.

)

f-

-fe-

1

I

I

j

HEATWAVE

Sing of human unsuccess
In a rapture of distress

— ^Auden

CRYPTANALYSIS — I
SECRET

From : Ferris, Undersecretary, Intelligence
To : Stone, Head, Cryptanalysis
Dear Mr. Stone,

The Head of Intelligence presents his compliments and
wishes to call your attention to the enclosed communica-
tion, recently received from the Lunar Observatory under
somewhat suspicious circumstances. There has been no
detectable response to further attempts at contact. Please
return your comments, in triplicate, as soon as is con-
venient.

Yours sincerely

(Squiggle)

pp J. T. Ferris, Undersecretary.

Sweating in the intolerable heat of his office. Stone gave
the letter a sulphurous glare. Just what was all this about ?
Intelligence passing the buck again ? Angrily he twisted the
air-conditioner knob. It was already fully on. Hell ! For the
first time. Stone glanced at the scrap of rice-paper (memor-
ise and eat?) attached to the offending letter. It said, simply,
THE SUN IS GOING NOVA.

/

123

INTERIM — I

The head of Intelligence sipped iced tea and contacted
the CRETIN computaplex from a distant teletype. He began
to type — ?does complete security exist in cryptanalysis
dept
YES

?how do you know

ASSUME COMPLETE SECURITY NONEXISTENT
COMPLETENESS IMPLIES TOTAL DEGREE OF EXISTENCE
ERGO SECURITY HAS INCOMPATIBLE QUALITIES COMPLETENESS
+ nonexistence// /paradox///

ERGO COMPLETE SECURITY EXISTS
thankyou and goodbye
MYPLEASURE

GOODBYE, the computer signed off affably
Baffled but reassured, he left the terminal.

DEEPS — I

Twenty miles beneath the Earth’s surface, down the
deepest hole ever made by man, Charles Trente sweated
and stared dully at the seismographs. He wasn’t needed in
that cave of machines — every last gadget was automatic,
except the emergency shutdown switch. Rather than risk
the expensive equipment to the smallest degree, the Powers
Above — twenty long miles above — had decreed that a
watchman must always be present.

Two weeks to go. His only pastimes were reading and
writing. Mainly writing, for he hoped to sell his under-
ground journal to some overground newspaper. He was
working on it now.

Above, there is the abstract pattern of society — Maya —
the woven mesh of trivial human interaction: below there
pulses the naked reality. Good Sunday-supplement stuff
this. Chthon: the aching weight of a million million tons of
rock. Sounds good, must check the figures. Chthon: grind-
ing darkness shot with flame. God, it was hot all right. And
those twenty-watt fluoros weren’t doing his eyes any good.
Here and only here, far from the distracting turmoil of the
emphemeral surface. Dr. Johnson lives! why can’t I say

124

madding crowd and have done with it? man can truly
come to terms with his planet, be at one with its dark inter-
nal forces. Deep calleth unto deep. 'But sweet as the rind
was the core is' wrote Swinburne once, not knowing the
core was sweeter yet than ever he guessed. For here, at the
still point of the turning world. Drivel, Charles me boy, and
you know it. Cross that last bit out, not even the Sunday
papers will swallow that ‘still point’ when I’m nearly four
thousand miles from the centre, which is a damn sight
hotter than this stinking hole. Let’s try the radio for a
change.

After a while, he smiled. Having a heatwave, were they?
It had better be good and chilly for his ascent from hell in
two weeks.

CRYPTANALYSIS — 2

The machinery of Cryptanalysis was in high gear. Their
CRETIN computer was hard at work on the mysterious mes-
sage. Stone waited for the results, nerves on edge, cretin :
the Cryptanalytic Relational Execution Terminal Interface
Network. Or was it right that the acronym referred to the
machine’s functions of Co-ordination, Relocation, Extra-
polation, Triangulation, Incrementation and Notification?
It was too hot to think. Or again, it might be — Bzzzzt!
After four hours of symbol- juggling, cretin had cracked
the message. The display screen glowed.

THE SUN IS GOING NOVA, it proclaimed in flashing letters. The
output continued smoothly.

-PRELIM

A IS FIRST LETTER OF ALPHABET BUT LAST OF MESSAGE
QUERY IMPLIES ANALYSIS TO START AT END OF MESSAGE
QUERY REVERSE MESSAGE
-REVERSAL

AVON GNIOG SI NUS EHT

(Stone jerked. N.U.S. ! What were those students up to
now?)

-LOGICAL REARRANGEMENT
AVON GN-TEN-G SINUS EHT
-COMMENTS

125

/AVON/ - REFERS TO RIVER

/EHT/ - ELECTRICAL ABBR SIGNIFYING EXTRA HIGH TENSION
/GN-TEN-G/ - MOST ADVANCED CHINESE COMPUTAPLEX HAS
CODE GN-NINE-Q - ALSO KNOWN AS BLOSSOMING FLOWER
OF KNOWLEDGE AND FOUNT OF COOL WATERS OF INSPIRATION
- THEORISE GN-TEN-G SUPERIOR MODEL OF SAME FAMILY
/SINUS EHT/ - IN CONJUNCTION WITH ABOVE FACTORS
SUGGESTS REF TO CHUNG WONG INSTITUTE NR STRATFORD -
OSTENSIBLE PURPOSE OF THIS ESTABLISHMENT IS CURE OF
HAY FEVER BY ELECTROTHERAPY AND ACUPUNCTURE
-CONCLUSION

CHUNG WONG INSTITUTE IS FRONT FOR COMPUTAPLEX - PUR-
POSE UNKNOWN
-FURTHER COMMENTS
NONE

***END PROGRAM
***CRYPTAN 4 DECOMPILING

♦♦♦machine cleared
‘ril be damned/ said Stone.

OBSERVATORY — I

‘Lovely. Oh, lovely.* Lyman beamed as he examined the
negatives. ‘A beautiful bit of work, Morgan. Three new
spectral lines — ^wonderful ! ’ In the stifling air of the Salis-
bury Plain Observatory, the celluloid film was already curl-
ing up.

‘We’ll call them the Morgan lines, of course?’ queried the

anxious researcher. ‘After all, it was my discovery ’

‘But I did half the work, remember ! ’ Paschen broke in.
Lyman smiled again. ‘Just to confuse the issue, boys, do you
know that Brackett and Pfund are hard at work producing
some explanation of why the solar spectrum is sprouting
new lines ? Now if they succeed, what can we call them but
the Brackett-Pfund lines? You’d better talk to them and
come to some agreement.’ Lyman’s smile became even
more seraphic. ‘With only three lines and five of us, I admit

the naming situation is a little ’

'Five of us?’ Morgan shrieked. ‘You don’t mean — ^you,

126

too ’ He turned and walked out, followed by Paschen. It

didn’t do to go too far with the Director.

‘Close the door after you,’ Lyman called out, as he wrote
THE LYMAN EFFECT in neat capitals at the head of a sheet of
foolscap.

INTERIM — 2

Dr. Apricot always hated this lecture-theatre. In the
morning, the sun struck harshly down through the high
windows at the rear, blinding him so he lost his audience in
the shadowy body of the room. A faint snoring could be
heard — in this heat he couldn’t blame them. Where was he
now — ah yes

‘ — ^we see that although it is often theorised that the flar-
ing of a stellar body into the nova state takes place very
rapidly indeed on the cosmic scale it is difficult to estimate
precisely the time required for the transition stage in fact
when we enjoy unusually hot weather such as we are
undergoing at this moment why for all we know we should
be making our peace with god and preparing for the end of
all things as our sun explodes into incandescent gases ha ha

ha ’ He was rewarded by two or three polite titters

among the snores — intense gratification; some of them are
awake ! But so hot, so hot ... He sipped his tepid water and
droned on. His next pleasantry produced just one chuckle.
Modified rapture.

Half an hour later, when the concentration of sunlight
through his water-jug set some papers alight, there was no
response at all from the gathered students — a pox on them,
they’re all asleep now. Apricot poured water over the
flames and walked out. Behind him, two hundred earnest
seekers after knowledge slept on in happy unawareness.

CRYPTANALYSIS — 3

Stone sat listlessly at his desk, doing the Times crossword
puzzle. What was the country coming to, he wondered,
when you had to wear sunglasses indoors. Half the letters in
the paper had been complaints about the Met. Office, who
were held generally responsible for the heat. He looked
longingly at the closed window — ^last time he’d opened it.

127

the air had been hotter outside than in. On the street, ten
storeys down, people wandered about, fainting alternately
into one another’s arms. Hot and scrambled under Stratford
(4) What was that? Vague thoughts of eggs drifted in his
mind, to be dispelled as Higgins ambled in.

‘Noticed something funny about that thing you’ve got
everyone working on,’ gasped Higgins, wiping his brow and
wringing out the handkerchief into Stone’s waste-basket.
The Head eyed him with disfavour.

‘What?’

‘Well, if you take every third letter, starting with that

first T, look what you get ’ He scribbled on the blotter :

The Sun Is gOinG noVa. TSIOGV. ‘And now rearrange

it ’ Underneath, he wrote S VOIGT. ‘There! Feel like

telling that to Sammy Voigt next door?’

‘Um.’ Stone buzzed Voigt on the intercom.

‘Odd you should call me just then,’ said Voigt, coming
in with a strange smile. ‘Take a look at this. I’ve been play-
ing anagrams.* The paper he held out had just three lines
of writing on it, starting with that hateful message :

THE SUN IS GOING NOVA

(letters of message) a e gg h ii nnn oo ss t u v
( rearranges to) stone higgins ovanu

‘Ovanul’ cried Stone. The famed, the legendary double-
agent !

‘Precisely,’ grated Voigt, covering them with a heavy
automatic. He turned back his lapel to reveal the large Day-
Glo orange badge of Security. ‘And now I’d like you to
answer a few questions, Mr. Stone ! ’

INTERIM — 3

Prudence String was sitting at her typewriter. She sucked
at a cigar and rattled off the conclusion of tomorrow’s
supercharged philosophy-for-the-masses.

Although your hot and sweaty feet are itching, blame it
on the heat; and be not narky to your friends, 'tis not their
deeds that shape your ends. So call your neighbour not a
sod, the bastard is the work of God: dismiss your anger
with a laugh and cool it in an icy bath. Not quite the right
tone, maybe, but what the hell ? She slid the sheet out of the

128

typewriter. The Tray As You Enter column was one hell of
a job. Where was that gin ... ?

OBSERVATORY — 2

Again, Morgan and Paschen walked in together. Both
looked somewhat battered, and there was blood on their
knuckles.

‘You have come to some agreement?’ Lyman asked
blandly.

‘Yes,’ said Morgan. ‘Briefly : the faint line in the far ultra-
violet is to be called the Lyman-Brackett-Pfund line, while
the strong red and bluegreen lines are to be called the
Morgan and Paschen lines respectively.’ He braced himself
for Lyman’s counterblast. The furnace-heat of the room
(how did the old devil keep so cool?) did nothing for his
nerves.

‘My dear boy,’ murmured the Director, ‘I have bad news.
The term “the Morgan lines’’ already exists in quite another
context — a series in the hydrogen spectrum, nothing to do
with the sun’s current anomalies. The same goes for the
Paschen, Brackett and even the Pfund series, in memory of
your respective namesakes.’

‘And so does the Lyman series ! ’ shouted Paschen. ‘I just
remembered ’

‘Let me finish. I’ve already prepared my paper, “The
Lyman Effect’’, which accounts for the whole thing — some-
thing to do with runaway fusion reactions, wouldn’t in-
terest you — and have very generously acknowledged your
assistance, in a footnote. You can’t say fairer than that.

‘Now don’t be hasty,’ he added hastily, ‘that paper’s
already in the post to the Royal Society.’

Morgan approached with glazed eyes. ‘Kill ! ’ he suggested.

‘Kill ! ’ Paschen agreed.

Lyman sprinted for the door, dodging them both.

‘Kill ! ’

CRYPTANALYSIS — 4

Stone’s intercom buzzed.

‘Answer it!’ Voigt ordered. Stone obeyed, panting
slightly.

129

‘Mr. Stone? Tugg here. I think Tve cracked that message
at last! Absurdly simple, like all cryptograms once you
know the answer.’

Tugg, thought Stone. Albert Tugg, Take every fourth
letter in the message, starting with the initial T, and you got
TUGGA; Tugg comma A, like the telephone directory?
‘How did you do it ? ’ he enquired wearily.

‘1 ran the computer again, and tied in the moron banks.’

‘The Matrix Oriented Random Operator Nexus?’

‘You guessed it. Anyway, it worked and I’ve got the print-
outs here.’

‘Bring ’em up ! ’

‘In a minute. I’m still doing my nut down here . . .’ Click.
Off went the intercom, nut. Stone remembered. Nodal Un-
certainty Testing.

They waited in silence, Voigt as coldly hostile as he could
be at 96 Fahrenheit. The tea-girl came in and poured a cup
all round. None of them drank it.

‘Iced tea, please . . .’ wailed Higgins piteously. They
ignored him.

Enter Tugg, stage left, perspiring freely.

‘Why Mr. Voigt, what are you doing with that gun?’

‘Shut up. Start talking.’

Tugg was only too pleased to explain. ‘First I got the idea
that the message should be read backwards — in reverse that
is ’

‘The computer thought of that,’ observed Stone dispas-
sionately. He stared at a chocolate bar on the desk, which
was flowing out of its wrapper and across some Top Secret
files.

‘Ah, but I verified it. See, you take the first letter of each
word and get TSIGN, which rearranges to STING. Like
they say, “the sting’s in the tail’’, so I started from the tail-
end of the message.’

A faint, dull thudding noise proved to be Higgins beating
his head against the wall.

‘But the important thing was — ^no letter B I ’

IWhat?^

‘Yes, I did a complete analysis. The probabilities were
97% that, if a layman were involved, he’d say the sun is

130

BLOWING UP, and a scientist would say — 94.5% probability
— THE SUN IS BECOMING UNSTABLE. Both Containing a B, you

see.’

Voigt’s eyes were glassy. Stone muttered something about
Ellery Queen.

‘Now what is special about B? The answer lies in
topology. B is the only letter which comprises two closed
loops when written as a capital. With this broad hint in
mind, cretin analysed the reversed message by assigning as
I to letters containing one closed loop, such as a, and zero
to those with none, like s or e. This produces a binary
number He wrote as follows, avongniogsinuseht. ‘The
a’s and o’s are i, the other letters zero. So we get the binary
number 10 10000 1000000000. That is, 2^® + 2^^ + 2®, giving
72,342 in decimal, which factorises to 2® times 7 times 23.
Now d’you see?’

‘No!’ chorussed the other three. The room shrieked as
another ambulance of heatstroke cases went by.

‘All right. Look, the prime numbers run 2,3,3,7,11,13,17,
19,23,29 and so on. i doesn’t count, making 2 the first
prime, 7 the fourth and 23 the ninth. Thus the message boils
down to the ist prime to the 9th power, times the 4th
prime, times the 9th .. . leaving us with the four-digit mes-
sage 1 9 4 9* . , .

‘And as it happens,’ his voice was heavy with meaning,

‘the only person in this building bom in 1949 Clara the
tea-girl ! ’

V Suppressing an oath, Voigt picked up his untouched cup
— sniffed

‘As 1 thought! Cyanide!’ He charged out of the room.
Shots rang out in the corridor. Stone and Higgins shook
hands.

‘Little does he know,’ said Higgins, rubbing the heat-rash
on his neck, ‘that you poisoned his tea.’

‘He does know,’ Stone replied with an inscrutable smile.
‘But he’s on our side. Clara was the only agent of Intelli-
gence left in the building — ^this was our master-plan to
eliminate her.’

‘Not so fast. Stone ! ’ They turned. Tugg, by the window,
was aiming a light machine-gun at them, and even as they

gaped and screwed up their eyes against the intense light
from behind him, he peeled off (with obvious relief) the
lifelike rubber mask he wore.

‘Ovanu ! ’ they cried with one voice. An earthquake shook
the building.

INTERIM — 4

FRENCH POWER BONANZA

Solar plant's highest output ever
(My sun in whom I am well pleased . . .)

TAR MELTS ON M-WAYS !

Drivers told. Stay off major roads
(Motorists of the world unite, you have nothing to
choose but the lanes . . .)

His rivals in the placard line might beat him when it
came to novelty, Jones mused, but he won all along the line
on simple dignity, even in this ghastly heat . . .

REPENT
FOR THE END
OF THE WORLD
IS AT HAND

OBSERVATORY — 3

Slowly, painfully, Lyman recovered consciousness. He
was lying on soft grass, and it was night. Even now, the air
was hot and humid. He felt the stinging agony of second-
degree sunburn. The aurora borealis danced on the horizon,
and the moon shone down, brightly, brightly.

Now he remembered : being chased by the heat-crazed
Morgan and Paschen up onto the observatory dome. There,
he had thought, he could hold them off for ever. He had
reckoned without their devilish cunning. They set the tele-
scope for fast satellite tracking, causing the dome to rotate
and throw him off. They must have left him for dead, and
rushed to break into the nearby mailbox. He smiled his old
smile. Little did they know that he had sent the precious
letter by messenger, to go by registered post from the
nearest office ! He was still too weak to stand — was his leg

132

broken? — ^but happily he lay there as the moon shone
brightly, far too brightly.

1

DEEPS — 2

The monster lift was ascending the last mile, grinding
and swaying. Trente panted in the hot, oppressive air. He
was furious. He’d stayed a day late and no relief had turned
up. Blast them all, who. do they think they are, leaving me
down a bloody stifling hole and going away? Power’s off,
too — dim lights in the lift-cage mean emergency batteries
up there. Good thing the lifts work from both ends ... He
picked up his manuscript (My Unique Experience In The
Depths, Oh for something really unique) and added some
dirty comments concerning the International Seismic Re-
search Foundation, inefficiency thereof. Foundation for
Assorted Researches into Tectonics, he thought. ISRF ought
to change their name . . . Radio link broken down, no mes-
sages for a week, instruments playing up (9.3 Richter read-
ings : really ! ) — he was sick of it all.

Still hot. It was silly of course, but he could swear it was
getting hotter as he neared the surface.

Hotter, hotter, hotter . . .

1

133

s

■ V

M:

/.nf:-

■f

I

I

• ^

I

I

I

1

I

I

HEAL THYSELF

by

-John Rackham

Through the centuries physicians have been told to
go and heal themselves, usually by irate sufferers
who gain no cure or respite. We know that faith in
the doctor is a powerful ingredient of the healing
process and that any questioning of his skill may be
counter-productive to success. And yet, always,
sometimes subconsciously, sometimes stronger when
things go wrong, we are aware that there are diffi-
culties faced by doctors that modern medicine should
examine more closely. This story, which might be
thought of as the opening shot in a *what if?' situa-
tion, conceals much agony beneath its mild deceptive
rural exterior.

HEAL THYSELF

The silkily placid voice shivered the bubble of his meander-
ing thought stream to say,

‘This session is complete, Mr. Millar. You may now arise
and dress,’ and Robert Millar guiltily recovered his atten-
tion from a reverie to do with Akademgorodok, where he
had been on an assignment only a week ago. One was sup-
posed to lie still for five minutes and concentrate on noth-
ingness, not go chasing in thought all over creation. The
thin exercise-mat wasn’t enough to take off the hardness of
the wood-block floor on the back of his head, his shoulder-
blades, his buttocks, his heels. He stirred, winced a little, sat
up, and met the deep dark gaze of his instructor-therapist.
She was a tiny Tibetan tyrant, dark of hair and complexion.
She sat at boneless ease in Padmasana, the Lotus-Seat, and
he could feel the cool disapproval that lurked beneath her
calm. ^

‘You still do not relax properly, Mr. Millar,’ she accused.
‘You think too much.’

‘I’m all wrong altogether.’ He sighed. ‘I’m not even the
right shape to lie flat on a floor. As for thinking too much,
according to you I’m not supposed to think at all.’

‘That is correct.’

‘1 know. But you don’t tell me how to stop thinking, do
you? And 1 don’t want to hear that “make your mind a
blank’’ advice, thank you. That is exactly the same problem
in different words.’ He stood up, stretched, then looked
down to see that her oval face had tilted to follow his move-
ments. She ignored his gibes. She had heard them before.

‘You are rested and refreshed now?’

‘Oh yes, thank you.’ He could answer that one with per-
fect honesty. Three quarters of an hour of diligent twisting

137

and stretching, bending and breathing, rounded off by the
five minutes Savasana, the total relaxation of the death-
pose, really did sharpen him up. Even if his Western-style
body couldn't quite manage all those weird postures, the
effort certainly was worth while in its effects. He felt fine.
He smiled, bowed ceremoniously to her, then went away to
dress, to strip off the minimum cotton leotard of the Insti-
tute and put back on the formal shirt, collar, tie, shoes and
all the rest of the habilments of Western man. On his way
out he called in on the guru, as he always did before
leaving.

Kishri Subadatta and he were old friends, over and above
the regular teacher-student relationship. In his professional
valence, Millar had once written-up this Institute, and that
small publicity had made all the difference between
economic failure and its present modest success. Even be-
hind a veiy modern desk the old man personified all the
remotely imperturbable wisdom of the Orient, only his
dark eyes moving, and twinkling with genuine pleasure as
Millar settled in a chair.

‘You are in a state of well-being, my son,' he said. ‘It is
revealed in your movements.’

‘I’ve felt worse,’ Millar agreed. ‘End of last week, for in-
stance. What with the Siberian cold, the diet, commissars
everywhere, the strictly guided tour, the high-power propa-
ganda in every other word, and the raw naked need to
make a good impression, those chaps really worked at it.
I’m telling you. I was completely whacked by the time I
got back here to London. Without the two or three sessions
a week here, I don’t know what I’d do.’

‘You think too much. You would have ulcers by now, a
coronary in five years, and an early grave. He who hurries
too much passes by much more than he overtakes.’

‘We put it differently. Better a little bit too late down
here than too early up there. I wish you could get that
attitude of mind across to one or two editors of my
acquaintance.’ Millar spoke with feeling. As a free-lancing
science-writer he had to feed the insatiable appetites of men
who wanted the very latest technical news tracked to
source, digested, and immediately regurgitated in words

138

and values that the average laymen could understand with-
out having to think too hard. It was a full-stretch, restless,
strenuous life, and he loved it, but there were times — he
sighed and repeated, ‘Without regular sessions here, with
your staff to unwind me, I just couldn’t take it.’

Subadatta let the silence stretch a little before he said,

‘But what ? ’

‘Eh?’ Millar started, stared, but the old man stared him
back with a knowing gleam.

‘Your tone, your attitude, both betray dissatisfaction.’

‘Yes.’ Millar put his head on one side apologetically.
‘Don’t think I’m criticising you. I’m not. You recharge my
batteries fine, always. But — I don’t know — I get the feeling,
somehow, that there’s something I miss. That there is more.’

‘We keep nothing back. My assistants were trained by
me. I have myself conducted your exercises . . .’

‘It’s not that. I’m getting the treatment, and it works. But
there is still that feeling that it ought to be so much better.
Perhaps I’ve sold myself to my own imagination, but there
it is. It’s that conviction that if only I could reach out just a
bit more . . .’

‘It is not to be reached,’ the old man interrupted him.
‘You are close. Close enough to sense the real spiritual
energy, the surge of inner strength. But one does not reach.
Not by effort, or striving. One says “Peace, be still ! ’’, and it
comes.’

‘But that’s just the trouble,’ Millar complained. ‘You say
“relax”. Let go. Make your mind empty, your body at
peace. You say. But I can’t. You tell me. Why can’t you
show me how?’

‘Because it cannot be taught, my son. It must be learned.
In my training, as in the training of every guru, there was a
long beginning time, a trying and frustrating time, when I
had to do nothing. My master told me nothing, said nothing
to me. I had to learn, of myself, how to do nothing, think
nothing and be nothing. It was hard, but necessary. Only
this way could I win free of the clutter of outside pressures,
patterns and beliefs, the noise in my mind. My son, inside
every one of us there is a witless chattering ape, fidgeting,
restless, ever inquisitive, unable to keep still. Before any

139

true self- wisdom can come, that monkey busy-body must
be hushed. Even for me, in my country, it was difficult. For
such a man as you, continually bathed in the uproar of
news, views, imaginations and sensations, it is virtually im-
possible.*

Millar digested this ruefully. He knew it to be true. Like
any other busy man he treasured the rare moments of quiet
and solitude which came his way, but he also knew that
such moments served merely to skim oE the worst of the
pressure. The deep-rooted drives remained, had enough
power to make him feel guilty and restless if he idled too
long.

‘I cannot show you how, my son. I can only help a little.
I can use words. I can make postures for you to copy. But I
cannot share feelings with you. I cannot make your nerves
and muscles obey as I can my own. If only I could, my task
would be much easier.*

That moment, the genuine regret in the old man*s voice
and on his seventy-five years young and serene face, lin-
gered in Millar’s mind as he went away to keep an appoint-
ment. He knew there was truth in what the old man said.
Common-sense, alone, made it obvious that if one could
only calm the restless stream of thought, and somehow per-
suade the nerves and muscles to stop fighting each other for
a while, all the power of the automatic and unsensed bio-
logical processes which labour continuously to maintain
the body in action would be able to catch up, would even
be able to establish a credit-balance. As any doctor would
cheerfully admit, nine times out of ten the body can and
will cure itself, if you only give it have a chance. The ideas
went round and round in his head, and he had that itchy
feeling that he was on the verge of something highly signi-
ficant, but external events intruded. They always did.

‘Something that ought to be right up your street, Millar,*
the features editor flipped a card across the desk to him.
‘Seems this chap half-promised a paper to the Lancet, some
new diagnostic tool or technique, but never delivered.
Something about needing more research. He’s a GP in some
one-street village somewhere in Hampshire, but has money

140

of his own. You care to run down and investigate, on the
off-chance?*

Hampshire on a day like this. Stovold. Millar didn’t know
it, but it could be found easily enough. The lure of a drive
in the sunshine was strong, but something else was stronger.
Millar studied the meagre details. B. Longley, MD, GP. Mar-
ried, no children. And the date.

‘I was at school with a Bruce Longley,* he said. ‘And the
date’s right. Always did claim he was going for medical
research. If it is old “Longlegs” after all these years — Lord !
You bet I’m going to chance it. Right away ! *

‘Good lad! Keep in touch!* The editor flashed a brief
smile and then switched to other business, reached for his
telephone.

The drive was a delight, the rolling green countryside
was at its best, and the little village of Stovold was a perfect
ending to the journey. In the cluster of quiet houses drows-
ing in the arms of the hillside in the early afternoon sun-
shine, Millar had no trouble at all in finding the side lane
which led to the ‘doctor’s’ house. There was a garden that
looked well-cared for, a front door standing ajar under a
porch where a myriad tiny roses had lured a droning
swarm of foraging bees. Millar knocked, and felt almost
ashamed to disturb such an idyll. It seemed an unlikely spot
to unearth a researcher, but Millar didn’t let that thought
worry him unduly. Inspiration doesn’t select targets by
looks. Newton must have been sitting close to an apple tree,
after all.

A woman came to the door to offer him a polite but
bewildered smile. It took a second look at close quarters for
him to realise that she was not quite as old as the worry
lines on her face would have suggested. If he was reading
those signs of strain aright, this was not the peaceful Eden it
seemed.

‘Sorry to disturb,’ he said. ‘My name’s Robert Millar. I
fancy it’s your husband I want to see. Dr. Longley?’

She took his card with reluctant finger-tips. ‘Is it very
important, Mr. Millar? You see, he’s resting just now, in the
back garden. I would much rather he wasn’t disturbed. He’s
not at all well.*

Tm sorry to hear that. I’ve just driven all the way from
London. Stupid of me, I should have phoned. Look,’ he put
on his best smile, ‘if you would just ask him? If I’m right,
we were at school together. Bedlows. I used to know him as
“Longlegs” and he would remember me as “Stinky” Millar.
Sorry if that sounds like something out of a book, but I
assure you it’s true. Schoolboys aren’t too wonderfully
original. I’m afraid. Does that make any difference?’

It certainly made a difference to her smile, and took
years from her age at the same time.

‘I do hope you’re right, Mr. Millar. A nice long chat with
an old friend is exactly what he needs just now. There just
isn’t anyone — do please come in.’ The passage was cool and
dim, leading right through the house to the brightness of the
garden beyond. Within seconds she had reappeared, waving
him to come.

‘He’s out there on the lawn. Have you had lunch, Mr.
Millar?’

‘Please don’t bother, Mrs. Longley. I wouldn’t dream . . .’

‘Rubbish!’ She cut him short with a snort. ‘You’ll be
doing me a boon if you’ll just sit there and eat, and let him
see you. It might encourage him to take something too. He
has been so difficult these past weeks. I’m at my wit’s end.
You go on, now. I’ll bring it out to you.’

There was a narrow gravel strip and then the carpet of
grass bordered by glowing flower-beds. A deck-chair under
a gaudy sunshade. A man climbing to his feet and turning.
A lean hang-shouldered man with a haggard face, and the
hand he held out in greeting was none too steady. Millar
stared, tried not to, but was so shocked by what he saw that
conventional commonplaces deserted him entirely. With
the rough familiarity of long ago he blurted :

‘Good God, Longlegs, what the devil have you been doing
with yourself?’

Longley managed a wry smile and clung to the hand-
shake as if afraid to let go. ‘The voice of sanity! Takes me
back a few years. Millar, it’s good to see you. Sit down,
won’t you? You haven’t changed much. I’m a wreck and I
know it. You see it. You’ve said it. How many of the others

142

would have said as much, eh ? Willers, Ponsonby, Coates —
any of ’em?’

‘I never did have any tact,’ Millar mumbled. ‘Always
blurting things out. I should have learned better by now.
You’ve been ill, of course.’

‘Never had a day’s sickness in twenty years. Can’t afford
to. I’m a doctor, you see. You knew that, didn’t you?’

‘Oh yes. You always did say you were going medical. But
I always took that to mean research.’

‘Pottering away in some subsidised laboratory, going
through the prescribed and approved motions? Not me. Ah,
that’s very thoughtful of you, my dear. You’ll stay, of
course . . . look here, I can’t call you Stinky, can I ? And I’m
afraid I’ve forgotten — ^no, wait a moment, I haven’t.
Robert?’

‘Right. Nothing wrong with your memory, old man. And
you’re Bruce.’

‘Splendid. Of course you’ve already met Dorothy. My
dear, haven’t we anything better than still lemonade?’

‘Not for me.’ Millar objected hastily. ‘Home made lemon-
ade is exactly what I need just now.’ He eyed the tray she
had brought and there was no need at all to pretend enthusi-
asm. ‘Salad fresh from the soil, this morning’s eggs, cream
cheese, fresh butter and real bread ! It’s a feast, Mrs. Long-
ley. You have no idea how refreshing it is.’

He had a further reward in seeing the heartfelt relief on
her face as her husband showed signs of being interested in
the fare. The man was gaunt. Millar remembered him as
being lean and intense, even as a youth, but that was a
vastly different thing from this near-emaciation. And there
were claw-marks of pain and sorrow on that face too.
‘We’re the same age ! ’ he told himself, and found it hard to
believe.

‘Well now.’ Longley shook sugar on to a crisp leaf of
lettuce and then rolled it into a stick, ready to bite. ‘And
what brings you to this forgotten backwater, and my
door?’

‘Your research,’ Millar told him bluntly. ‘I’m a science-
writer, Bruce. That’s as far as my “stinks” took me.’ He felt
the sudden chill his words had brought but he went steadily

143

on. ‘I came professionally, but Tve been met and made wel-
come as a friend. So — if you’d rather I dropped the whole
subject, just say so and I will. On the other hand if you feel
like talking you have my assurance that nothing you say
will be written up, or even repeated, unless you approve.
There it is. If you want to throw me out now, I wouldn’t
blame you one bit.’

For the space of three breaths a ghost hovered over Long-
ley’s head. Then he smiled ruefully. ‘I should have guessed, I
suppose. And it really doesn’t make any diiference. In
fact . . .’ a thoughtful gleam came into his eyes, *. . . science-
writer, eh? The eclectic view. Can’t say I’m surprised. You
always did have the knack of getting right to the meat of a
thing. You remember that time when old Masterson had
just finished taking us through Newton’s First Law. “To
every action there must be an opposite and equal reaction.”
And you said “It sounds as though the Universe is deliber-
ately designed so that we can’t get something for nothing ! ”
Remember?’

‘That was a quote.’ Millar chuckled. ‘Not original.’

‘But true, nevertheless.’ Longley crunched on his lettuce
for a while. ‘My research, for instance. Suppose I told you
that I have indeed discovered something extremely valu-
able, but utterly useless. Eh ? ’

‘You’d have to go further than that. Define your terms.
You can’t put “valuable” and “useless” opposite each other
that way, not and make sense.’

‘Oh, but I can, you know. Valuable? Of value. Useless?
Cannot be used.’ He took another leaf, sugared it deliber-
ately. ‘Ever been ill, Robert ? Bad enough to go to a doctor, I
mean? Did you have trouble explaining and describing
your symptoms? Most people do. But did you ever think
about the opposite side of the coin, about a chap in my
position?’ Longley was intense now, his gaunt face alight
with some inner emotion.

‘They come into my consulting room to be questioned.
“What seems to be the trouble, Mrs. Jones? Where does it
hurt ? How does it feel ?” ’ He screwed his face up in distaste.
‘How does it feel ? Do you realise, Robert, what an impos-

144

sible question that is? Of course the poor woman tries to
tell me. But can she ? Can you ? Can anyone tell anyone else
how they feel, really ? ’

‘I’d never thought of it before.’ Millar tried the idea for
himself and was disconcerted. ‘But surely,’ he objected, ‘this
is where your training comes in. Observation, known
symptoms, experience, that kind of thing ? ’

‘Of course I have training. So does any qualified man. But
let me put it to you this way. I imagine a good motor
mechanic could tell you quite a lot about an engine just by
listening to it. But you try running your car into a garage
and telling the mechanic you want it diagnosed and re-
paired, without lifting the bonnet! Yet that’s what a doctor
has to do. He has to diagnose the state of the most complex
and delicate piece of machinery in the world from external
evidence, plus experience, plus a layman’s uninformed re-
port. Which is usually biased, at that.’

‘I hadn’t thought of it like that,’ Millar said, and the more
he did think of it the more monstrous it seemed. Longley
went on :

‘We have a battery of techniques, of course. We measure
things like temperature, respiration, pulse rate and pressure,
we take swabs, biopsy samples, blood tests. We observe, we
deduce, and, all things considered, we do wonderfully well.
But just think, Robert, what a tremendous difference it
would make if I could “feel” exactly what my patient is
feeling I ’

‘Good Lord!’ Millar stopped chewing to stare. ‘How did
you hope to do that? By telepathy? Telempathy, I should
say.’

‘Alas, no. That little trick is still science-fiction, so far as
I’m aware. But there is a way.’

‘You mean you’ve succeeded? The lead I got was that
you’d devised some diagnostic technique or gadget, but —
you mean you can actually share physical sensations with
your patients ? ’

‘Oh yes.’ Longley said it heavily, not in triumph. ‘It was a
very simple thing, really. In essence, that is. Dorothy, my
dear . . .’ he looked up absently, and then blinked. ‘Now
where on earth can she have gone? Ah well, no matter, I

HS

can show you the gadget itself later on. A pity to go indoors
now and waste this glorious sunshine.' He straightened a
little in his seat, became more positive now that he was on
familiar ground.

‘You ought to be able to follow the basic theory well
enough. You know that the body maintains its internal
communication by various media, but mainly by the ner-
vous system. And that, when you get down to it, is nothing
more than a chemico-electrical network. A flow of im-
pulses, and all in binary form, the “all or nothing” of a
synapse. If I prick your finger, what happens in actual fact
is that a number of sensitive cells are affected, they trans-
mit impulses to your brain where they are decoded and you
“know” that your finger hurts. At the risk of being tedious,
let me stress, you “know” only what your brain decodes
from a set of impulses. If I could somehow feed into your
brain such a message — from some other source — ^your brain
would still “know” that your finger had been hurt. Con-
versely, if I could catch that impulse-stream and feed it into
my brain, I would know that my finger was hurt. I would be
deceived, you see ? In exactly the same way, if you took up
a telephone in the village, rang me, and said “Hello, this is
Robert Millar, speaking to you from London.” I wouldn’t
know any different. I merely accept and understand the
message. Now, add to that the fact that all the nerve mes-
sages from the body must pass here . . .' he put up his hand
to pat the nape of his neck, ‘. . . through the main nerve
trunk, on their way to the root-brain, the medulla ob-
longata . . .'

‘Here you are, darling.’ Mrs. Longley put down a squat
black bakelite box with dials and jack-leads not much big-
ger than the portable tape-recorder Millar often used for
transient ideas. ‘I was a nurse once,’ she explained, with a
bright smile. ‘One learns to anticipate.’

‘You’re familiar with this thing, then?’ Millar stared at it
askance.

‘Oh yes. I was the passive guinea-pig from the start.
Bruce, dear, do eat up. Talk if you must, but eat, too.’

Longley looked apologetic, sheepish, but enthusiastic
too. Between mouthfuls he sketched in the tedious

146

months, the struggle to absorb enough electronics to serve
his need, the contriving, the often desperate stratagems to
describe and order special parts without betraying too
much of what they were for. And the regular frustration.

‘But I got it, you know, in the end. A simple collar, this
part, to fit snug to the neck, and on this inner surface an
array of sensors to pick up the minute magnetic fields
generated by the nerve-impulse flows. Into here and ampli-
fied, naturally, and the output into this collar, which super-
imposes the identical pattern on my nervous system. You
see? As I explained to Dorothy, once, it’s very like a tele-
phone. You speak into one end. From that moment it is
nothing more than a patterned series of impulses. A sensi-
tive detector anywhere along the line could pick them up as
flows of electrical patterns. But it is not until there is sound,
an ear, and a brain, at the other end, that you have speech
once more. In the same way, these impulses do not mean
anything until they feed into a brain. And because your
brain always and only receives messages from your body, it
so translates these. You see?’

Millar sat quite still and stared at the innocent-looking
thing for a long while. He was not now concerned with
how it was done. It worked. He was prepared to take Long-
ley’s word for it. But the possibilities it opened up were
enough to scare him, at first. Then, with an effort, he hauled
his soaring imagination back to more prosaic things.

‘There’s a snag, isn’t there? You haven’t said so, not in so
many words. But it’s written all over you. And you said it
was useless, I remember.’

Longley grew old again. As he took up his glass the
slightly cloudy lemonade in it shivered to his agitation.

‘In a way, Robert, there’s nothing wrong with it. The
fault is in me. I am not the man I thought I was. Mirror,
mirror, on the wall; who . . .’

‘Stop it ! ’ Millar ordered firmly. ‘Stop that ! You, a doctor,
giving way to hysteria ! Get a grip on yourself, man ! ’

Longley shuddered, but the brusque advice got through to
him. He managed unsteady words. ‘You’re quite right. I’m
sorry. I’ll watch it. But it is the simple truth, Robert. You
call me a doctor. What does that mean? This little device

147

of mine has shown me, rubbed my nose in the fact, that I
know a little, a precious little, atout sickness, injury, ab-
normality and disease — but nothing at all about health ! ’ He
put down the glass, took a deep breath. ‘My practice, here,
is small. I chose it for that reason. Cuts and bruises, sprains
and fractures, the odd hangover here and there, those are
my staples. For them 1 need no machine at all. But there is a
small hard core of more persistent things. Afflictions of the
elderly and infirm, the chronic backaches and bellyaches,
the hypochondriacs. Do you know what ails them, at bot-
tom ? Nothing more than the cumulative results of years of
abuse, through ignorance. They do not know, never have
known, how to stand, sit or lie down, how to walk, or lift,
or grasp. They don’t know how to breathe, or what to eat,
or when, or how much — or when to leave off. They abuse
the most wonderful machine in the world, and the only one
they’ll ever get. And all by sheer deadly ignorance. So,
when the battered and abused frame reaches the point
where it can no longer repair itself, they come to me. To
me and thousands like me. They say “Give me a bottle,
doctor, or a tablet, or some liniment, to make me feel
better.’’ That’s the cry.’

Millar was silent, guessing what was coming.

‘They tell me how they feel. And, with this, I know how
they feel. My God how I know! They hurt! With this
thing I get all their warps and crookednesses, all the
wrenching twists and aches and pains. 1 feel them ! ’

And now Millar knew why his old friend looked two
decades more than his real age, and why Dorothy Longley
looked haggard. But Longley was going on.

‘I want to tell them, to yell at them “You don’t need
mixtures and tablets at all. You need to stop doing this and
that, and start doing the other thing. Stand up! Breathe!
Stop stuffing yourself with lard and starch ! Cut out all that
beer. For pity’s sake, relax and give your body a chance!’’
That’s what 1 ought to tell them. But I can’t ! ’

‘Why not? Why can’t you?’

‘Because, my dear man, you can’t do that. They wouldn’t
understand. You can’t give a man words. You have to show
him. And how can I show anyone else how to live ? 1 say to

148

you “Bend your finger, like this ! ’’ And you ask me, in re-
turn. “How do I do that, doctor?’’ And 1 can’t tell you. No-
one can.*

There was a silence into which bees buzzed and the
breeze whispered its private secrets over the grass while
Millar pondered the trap. Share a man’s sensations and you
become as he is. And if he is busy ruining and crippling
himself, then he will ruin and cripple you too. But you
can’t stop, because you’re a doctor, and you’ve sworn an
oath to heal, to do your best. Even if you don’t know what
to do, you must still do your best. A trap, and it was visibly
killing Longley. And that was here, in this quiet and com-
paratively healthy country village. What would it do to the
busy, overworked GP in town ? Millar shivered at the grisly
thought.

‘I don’t blame you for not wanting to publish this. It
would be murder ! ’

‘I know that,’ Longley nodded. ‘You see what it has done
to me. But what of the other side ? Have 1 the moral right to
withhold, to suppress something which could save lives?
Even just one life?’

‘It’s a trap, all right.’ Millar sighed. Dorothy Longley rose,
began gathering in the plates and dishes.

‘It’s so unfair,’ she said, very quietly. ‘It may be wicked
of me, but there are times when I wish that thing would
work the other way round, to let other folk know just a
little of what he is suffering ! ’ She stalked off with the tray.
Millar stared after her, struck by a sudden wild surmise.

‘See here!’ he spun back to Longley. ‘Why not?’ As
Longley frowned in bafflement he repeated. ‘Why not?
Why can’t you reverse the thing, step up the amplification
if necessary, and impose a set of remedial “sensations’’ on
your patient? That would be “showing’’, wouldn’t it?’

Longley smiled, but it was a dreadful grimace with no
mirth in it. ‘I had thought of that, Robert. It would work, of
course. I could impose my body patterns on a patient, truly.
But, I ask you again, what does it mean to say that I am a
doctor? What do I know about health, about the right
ways of acting, living, breathing. Who am I ? All my train-

149

ing, the years of study, of laboratory work, anatomy and
physiology, the ward-walking, the examinations and dip-
lomas — those were all to do with sickness. Nowhere in all
that time was there any instruction in how to be fit and
healthy. How can I show someone else how to do some-
thing I don’t know?’

Millar began to glow, to tingle with hot and bubbling
ideas. ‘How would you like to learn?’ he demanded, and
Longley raised his eyebrows in astonishment but Millar
laughed and was suddenly fervent. ‘Can you get a locum
for a week or two? Can you come with me, right away —
well, this evening, say — and put yourself in the hands of
someone who can show you how ? And bring your gadget.
Oh yes, definitely, bring your gadget. With that 1 can posi-
tively guarantee you will learn everything you need to
know.’

‘What on Earth are you talking about?’

‘You’ll see. Man, this is going to be the most wonderful
thing that ever happened to you. And me, too ! ’ That sud-
den realisation shook him silent for a moment. Now, at last,
he was going to be able to reach out and take the “power”
that he knew was there. ‘Just say you’ll do it, that’s all. I’ll
explain later. Can’t do any harm, could do the most amaz-
ing good. You will?’

‘Oh, very well.’ Longley shrugged. ‘I have a holiday due
anyway.’

Millar rose at once, demanding to be shown the tele-
phone.

‘Do remember to dial “oi” first.’ Mrs. Longley warned
him, and he nodded absently, watching the dial spin be-
neath his fingers. There came a well-remembered, placid
voice, and he said,

‘Robert Millar here, guru. 1 have another pupil for you. A
very special pupil indeed. And a method, a technique that
will interest you . .

THE OBSERVER

by

Graham Charnock

Jocaster, a backwater planet with a right to boast,
had been designed specifically to stir wonder in the
souls oi its visitors. Beauty may lie in the eye oi the
beholder; that does not mean whatever obverses
exist are not as real as the seen. In his first story
ior New Writings in SF, Graham Charnock evokes a
mood oi solitariness despite the action taking place
on a tourist planet.

I

I

f

I

1

I

i

A ■

V

i

I

(■

/

0

THE OBSERVER

Klein sat on the terrace at dusk. The air was saturated
with a preternatural golden light. He moved his hand
through it experimentally and inspected his fingertips, half-
expecting to see some sheen, some metallic patina, de-
posited on them. It struck him then that there might, quite
literally, be something in the air — crystal motes, perhaps,
seeded in the atmosphere by the worldscapers of Jocaster to
diffuse and transfigure the rays of the setting sun.

The idea made his skin crawl. He had never wanted,
never asked for this assignment in the first place. The sad
thing was, of course, that he had never been in the position
to refuse it.

He turned his attention to his hand, still raised, to his
fingers. They were thick and blunt — meant, in another age,
to tear at rock and scrabble in the earth, to shift, arrange
and build. On occasions he was conscious of their ugliness :
beside the delicate hand of a woman; holding a slim,
sharply-pointed stylus; or whenever reaction to strenuous
exertion made them tremble.

They were trembling now, for no real reason, and he
loosened his grip on the air and allowed his hand to fall
back lazily into his lap.

‘What are you looking at?’

It was Magnus. In the short time he had known him,
Klein had grown to hate the fragile young man. Magnus
was the ghost that was never far away, calling to him from
purgatory, beckoning him to cross the line. Klein hated his
closeness.

‘I’m indulging myself,’ Klein said. ‘For once. I’m not look-
ing at anything.’

153

‘Do you mind if I sit down?’

Klein answered with a slight shrug.

Magnus sat down beside Klein. He was indeterminately
young, his hair cut so short as merely to soften an effect of
baldness. He was, as ever, calm, relaxed, with a slight
supercilious set to his lips.

‘Mr. Klein . . .?’

The query hung in the air, begging some kind of reaction.
After a moment, Klein nodded.

‘Mr. Klein,’ Magnus continued, ‘I admire your work
greatly. I would like to talk to you about it.’

‘Until 1 came here,’ said Klein, ‘you knew nothing of my
work.’

‘That’s true. I knew only of your reputation. But don’t
you think, to a degree, a man is his reputation? You see, I
feel I knew a lot about you before you ever came to
Jocaster; now, of course, I know a great deal more.’

‘You’ve researched me, you mean.’

Magnus nodded. ‘Our circumstances differ and yet, you
must admit, there are these points of contact. You too must
place great emphasis on research, I imagine.’

Klein laughed suddenly.

‘I amuse you?’ Magnus asked.

‘You amuse me. You’re very engaging — ^very clever. I
wonder what you’re doing here.’

Magnus smiled, and gave a deferential nod. ‘We are both
servants, Klein. You are a servant of your public and I ... I
am your servant. We both have our responsibilities.’

‘You’re my servant then, are you?’ said Klein, interested
despite himself in the trend of the conversation. ‘Let me ask
you this : suppose I were to get it into my head to do away
with myself, say by jumping from this terrace. What
would you, as my servant, do?’

‘I would feel compelled to stop you.’

‘Even though I sincerely wished to die? You would act
against my wishes?’

‘I would look at it this way : one can wish to die at one
instant and wish to live the next. When one is dead, how-
ever, one cannot wish at all. Yes, 1 would stop you. 1 would
give you the chance to change your mind, as many chances

154

as you needed, if it came to it. I would act in accordance
with what I considered your best interests.’

‘You would know, then, what my best interests were?’

‘Possibly not. But I would ask you to trust me.’

‘And why should 1 do that?’

‘Because our relationship is clear, our roles are defined. A
master should always trust his servant or else the servant’s
judgement is undermined and he cannot function properly.
You must find this yourself, surely. People trust you. People
trust your reputation. They build their view of the universe
on what you and colleagues report. That’s your entire
raison d’etre. When trust ends you either become dishonest
or a slave, just as you do when you yourself compromise
that trust.’

‘You take your job very seriously,’ Klein said.

‘Of course,’ Magnus said, obviously surprised. ‘Doesn’t
everyone? I take everything seriously. I try to compromise
as little as possible. In particular I try to steer a positive
course away from dogma and mental laziness. I find it helps
to keep me loose and supple if I open my mind to paradox,
play hunches. It’s a weird, inverted kind of discipline, an
intuitive one. Do you know what I mean?’

Klein said, softly : ‘I thought you were interested in my
work?’

‘I am,’ Magnus said. ‘That’s what we’ve been talking
about.’

Magnus stood, went to the terrace rail and looked down
towards the beach. After a moment he turned back to
Klein.

‘The skater is due to depart shortly,’ he said. ‘Your col-
leagues are already boarding. Will you join them?’

Klein shook his head. ‘I believe I’ll just sit here. I’ve had
enough sensory experience for one day. I’m a tired man.’

‘Is there anything I can get you?’

‘A whisky perhaps.’

The conversation had put Klein in a reflective mood, but
he was too weary, too mentally depleted, to push any of his
thoughts through to a conclusion. Like large boulders, they
rolled a little way and no further. He felt a tinge of resent-

155

ment towards the way his schedule had been organised for
him, leaving him little enough time for basic privacy, let
alone independent investigation. Manipulation. It all boiled
down to manipulation. Once he had believed that the
manipulation of the environment was one thing and the
manipulation of people was another. If he was going to
bring any message away from Jocaster, perhaps it should be
that the two were inextricably intertwined. It was a mes-
sage that would not make him popular with the world-
scapers of Jocaster. They might, he thought sardonically,
never invite him back again.

Magnus bought Klein his whisky and then left him alone
once more on the terrace, looking out across the placid
bowl of the lake below and towards the distant mile-high
quartzite crag that rose from its centre. At this distance, the
massive waterfall that cascaded from the crag’s lip was
only a blur, the spray a miasmic veil of shifting rainbow
colours englobing the whole crag.

Klein took a sip from his drink — it was scotch whisky all
right, the real thing, and good too.

But that was all part of Jocaster’s boast. Everything on
the planet was real. Everything, thought Klein, except the
planet itself. Great oaks from little acorns grew, and mighty
planets from metaphysical acorns of aggregated matter — a
backwater world, a bleak globe of rock, water, gas and
organic material sculpted into a thing of transcendental
beauty.

Jocaster’s orange sun was slowly descending now to-
wards a liaison with the stump of stone and its frozen
whorls of transparent and translucent strata. Below him, on
the beach, the anti-gravity skater had taken the last of its
passengers aboard. Soon it would start out on its trip
, through the flying spray of the waterfall, and through the
weirdly chiming tunnel that had been hollowed through the
heart of the glowing crystal.

For a moment Klein felt a pang of regret as he thought of
what he would be missing. There was no point in being
blase about it. Jocaster had been designed specifically to
stir wonder in the soul of its visitors. It was powerful
magic, all right. The effect, even now, of the sun backlight-

156

ing the distant crag, was enough to make even the most
weary heart leap.

Why then did his heart not leap ?

He knew the answer. Because it was distrust and not
mere weariness that inhabited him. Like Magnus, his ghost,
he believed his intuition, and his intuition had always
taught him that vast beauty was paid for with vast ugli-
ness, that the one fed on the other. Jocaster was — or seemed
to be — ^pure beauty; it thumbed its nose at his carclully
wrought beliefs.

He was becoming jaded, cynical and a little alone. Roll a
thought around the grey matter too long, Klein pondered,
and it comes out grey. The only answer for that was pro-
fessionalism.

The crystal crag. How to describe it? It would come to
that eventually.

Put it in a tri-d frame? That wasn’t his job. That was the
job of the journalist. And anyway, the crag’s spectacle, its
wonder, was in its scale and its setting. Shrink it to the size
of a layer-cake and set it in the corner of some squalid
living compartment, and the wonder would evaporate.

An approach, then, through the emotions of the ob-
server? A poem — in words, or light, or sound, or sensation.
Or all four. And the distrust — where did that stand? How
to paint distrust? How to model what was after all some-
thing negative rather than something positive, an absence
rather than a presence ? How to suggest the niggling itch of
doubt without becoming too didactic ? Or perhaps a totally
didactic approach was necessary . . .

There was nothing new about these problems. They were
' the familiar ones of his profession. But applied to Jocaster
they seemed more pronounced than ever.

He took a small notebook from his pocket and began to
draft some notes in a quick flowing script.

A voice at his shoulder said: ‘How charmingly ata-
vistic.’

‘This?’ Klein laid down the notebook and looked up. ‘I’m
fast coming to the conclusion that I’m an atavistic man.
Miss Silver. I come from an atavistic world, after all. Won’t
you sit down?’

157

The woman, suspended in her mid-thirties by anti-sen
drugs, was tall and attractive with a head of flowing dark
hair that gave the lie to her name. Klein knew her only
slightly, less than intimately, although he hoped to change
that. She took a seat opposite him.

‘What’s that you’re drinking?’ she asked.

‘Whisky.’ He passed her the glass. ‘Would you like to try
it?’

Miss Silver sipped it tentatively, wrinkled her nose and
set the glass down. ‘This too is atavistic,’ she said.

‘Most of our pleasures are.’

‘We’ve had so little chance to talk, and I’ve very much
wanted to,’ the woman said. ‘You seem different from the
others. What is this world of yours called?’

‘It’s called Earth.’

‘The name is familiar.’

‘Some say it’s the precolonial home of the human race.
It’s of little importance whether it is or it isn’t. The universe
is too big for pilgrimages, and Earth too small. Still, it’s a
pleasant place — for atavists.’

Below them the anti-gravity skater pulled away from the
crescent edge of fine sand. They watched it sweep out,
wakeless, across the water.

‘Come down to the beach with me,’ said Klein. ‘We’ll be
alone.’

They made brutal love. She lay on her back, beached like
a soft-bellied turtle, his nails scouring her flesh until she
screamed. It was long and bitter, their striving, and it left
them bruised, the distensions of their flesh and the open
wounds of their lust slow to heal.

Away across the lake the crag burned a dull red as if
harbouring the last embers of a monumental fire.

‘Why didn’t you go with the skater?’ Klein asked her.

Black blood had dried in a fine line where his nails had
tom her cheek. She touched the wound absently.

‘I intended to go. But I saw you were staying. I thought it
might be more profitable to stay as well. And to talk to
you.’

‘Profitable in terms of what?’

We’re in the same profession, Klein. It’s conceivable we
might have the same reactions to some things. One may
know how to articulate those reactions in a way the other
doesn’t. We both might leam something.’

Klein was silent.

‘What do you think of the crag ? ’ Miss Silver asked.

‘It’s Niagara writ large.’

‘Niagara ? ’

‘A honeymoon resort on Earth. It has a waterfall too.’

‘I see — a facetious answer. Doesn’t the crag impress you
at all?’

‘It does . . . and yet . . .’

‘You are uneasy. It lacks something?’

‘Mingled beauty and ugliness,’ Klein said, reaching out to
remove her hand from her cheek.

They came from the forest that fringed the beach. They
were naked and old, with wrinkled skin and fringes of
beard. They bore torches, flaming stumps of wood, and
there were perhaps a hundred of them.

‘What’s going on?’ said Klein.

Magnus leant forward, braced against the terrace-rail.

‘It’s the forest-people,’ he said. ‘They’re just savages.’

‘But they’re beautiful,’ said Miss Silver.

‘Savages,’ Magnus repeated. ‘They’re only pseudo-homi-
nids. They rear their young from eggs, like lizards. On the
Crooke-Bowles scale they are only ’

‘They’re still beautiful.’

As darkness and the cool of night touched the crag, a
strange thing happened. Shards and slabs of crystal flexed,
planes shifted. The crag became an enormous amplifier for
the tiny sound-and-light source Jocaster’s engineers had
seeded at its core.

From across the water — coruscating light, a riot of spec-
tral colour, a symphony of harmonics.

It was too much, thought Klein. Too beautiful.

Silently, almost stoically, it seemed, the forest-people
entered the water, still carrying their torches held aloft,
lighting their way until the last moment when the water
swamped them. They began to swim, a poorly co-ordinated

159

dog-paddle out towards the flaming re-born image of the
crystal.

‘I don't understand/ said Klein. ‘What are they doing?’

‘It’s the season of birth/ Magnus told him. ‘There would
not be food enough to feed the young if the old did not die.
They are poor swimmers, as you see. None will reach the
crag.’

‘Why do they do it this way? Why this ritual?’

Magnus smiled and gestured out over the terrace-rail.

‘See, the display ends. The crystal stabilises itself.’ He
turned away. ‘The forest-people are primitive. Who knows
what the crag represents for them.’

Klein watched the sparks of colour subside as silence re-
turned.

The next morning Klein, Miss Silver, and the other ob-
servers boarded an anti-gravity transport. They had a tight
schedule and many more wonders to see.

The transport rose and circled once over the lake. From
the window Klein caught a brief glimpse of two skaters
moving on the water, netting the floating bodies of the
drowned forest-people.

Beside him. Miss Silver was speaking softly into a mole-
cular-flow recorder. She hadn’t cleaned or dressed the
wound on her cheek. Klein ordered a whisky, opened his
own notebook on his lap and, warmed and relaxed by the
alcohol, began to write.

i6o

CASSIUS AND THE MIND-JAUNT

by

Colin Kapp

Dr. Andrea Cass had a way with her, a very special
way, and Martin Sawyer discovered something of
that way when he ventured into Tavener's model
as a naive cognicenter. These are the streets through
which imagination roams, the territories of dream
and nightmare, reflections of a land built in the soft
pulp of another man's brain.

I

/

J

CASSIUS AND THE MIND-JAUNT

One

‘Doctor Martin Sawyer?*

Sawyer hesitated. The Autumn evening in south London
was misty and raw, and the rain had scarcely ceased. A
continuous line of vehicles from the research establishment
edged through the puddles on his right, intent on gaining a
place on the already overcrowded highway. In front of
him, the bright flare of passing headlamps against the unlit
background, and the rising steam of vehicle exhausts
coloured red by tail-lights, was like a preview of a cold
comer of Hell. Against such impressions he found it difficult
to identify the person who had spoken.

‘Yes, I’m Sawyer. But I wasn’t expecting . . .’

‘No. But we were expecting you.’ A cased, white card
flashed briefly. ‘Ministry of Security, Scientific Branch.
We’d like a word with you. Please don’t give any
trouble.’

Sawyer started to protest, but a firm grip on his arm
cautioned him that his interceptor was not going to be
easily dissuaded.

Around the corner, a discreet black car was tucked into
the end of a slip-road. It contained a driver, and another
occupant in the rear seat. Sawyer was motioned to join
him.

‘Meet Tony Haven, U.S. Technical Defence Department,’
said the M.O.S. man as he climbed into the front seat. ‘My
name’s Watman, and you’re too well known to us to need
any introduction. Doctor Sawyer. I guess that makes the
party complete.’

‘Glad to know you, Martin ! ’ said the American, holding

163

out a huge hand. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here. There’s no
percentage to be gained by keeping Cassius waiting.’

‘What’s this all about?’ asked Sawyer, as the car swept
out into the traffic.

‘You’ll be told when we get there,’ said Watman.

‘Am I under arrest or something?’

‘Of course not. You volunteered to come. It’s pure coinci-
dence your door can’t be opened from the inside.’

‘At least let me phone my home. I’ve another appoint-
ment this evening.’

‘It’s all been taken care of. As far as the world’s aware,
you’re catching an evening flight to Stockholm. Nobody’ll
miss you for at least a week. So you might as well relax and
enjoy the ride.’

‘Where’re you taking me?’

‘If he told you, you’d not believe it,’ said the big Ameri-
can. ‘You’re going on a walkabout.’

‘I doubt it. But in any case, why me?’

‘It has to be you, Martin. You happen to be the only one
who can find his way around.’

Sawyer found that this enigma was all the information
he was going to get before they reached their destination.
The others refused to be drawn. He had to be content with
reading the route signs as the car threaded through London
and settled on a steady heading north.

They were obviously in for a long journey. Tony Haven,
the big American, shifted his bulk uneasily until he found a
comfortable position, then he dropped off to sleep. His
snores easily rivalled the sound of the engine. Watman, in
the front seat, also relaxed; but it was certain that any
movement on Sawyer’s part would have triggered him into
instant action. Sawyer tried to keep awake, but he knew
from the distances covered between his periodic viewings
of the road signs, that he must occasionally have dozed
off.

Eight hours and two stops later — stops at which his every
movement had been supervised by Haven — they reached
their destination. They were now well into Scotland and
away from any major towns. Because he had no knowledge

164

1

of the area, the local place-names meant nothing to Sawyer.
He had a brief impression of a group of huts, a gate with a
sentry who waved them through down an unmade road,
and then a final sweeping halt in front of a large house
carved back into the side of a hill.

‘This is as far as I go,’ said Watman, conversationally. ‘If
you’ll come into the office. Doctor Sawyer, I’ll get you
signed over.’

‘Signed over to whom?’

‘Cassius, of course. It’s her show. And right glad I am to
be out of it.’

‘What happens then?’

The M.O.S. man scowled. ‘Look, chum, I don’t know, and
I don’t feel inclined to ask. Take it up with Major Miller.
He’s handling the affairs for our end.’

The big American laid a heavy arm across Sawyer’s
shoulder. ‘Goddammit, Martin, cheer up! You’re going
to have the chance to take part in a great experiment.
Great ! ’

His enthusiasm lasted all of the five steps which took
them inside the door.

The place had the air of once having been a private hotel.
At the counter, a British Army Sergeant laid some papers
out and motioned for Sawyer to sign.

‘What’s this in aid of?’ asked Sawyer, viewing the
scheme reluctantly.

‘Official Secrets — Special Powers Act, sir. You sign at the
bottom there.’

‘Give me one good reason why I should.’

The orderly looked quizzically at Haven. ‘If you don’t
sign, sir, you can’t be admitted,’ he said.

‘That suits me fine. I don’t want to be admitted. I wasn’t
too keen on the exercise, anyway.’ Sawyer turned to go, but
the big American was blocking his path.

‘Steady a minute, Martin! You’re kind of an important
guy to this project. You’re not going to let a little piece of
paper stand in the way.’

‘Then you sign it. I didn’t ask to come here, and I don’t
intend staying. I’m certainly not signing anything.’

‘Mar-tin!’ said Tony Haven. ‘Stop taking yourself so

165

seriously. You’ve been co-opted on to a secret project. Is
that what you wanted to know ? ’

‘What project, and what’s the extent of my participa-
tion?’

That I can’t tell you unless you sign the paper.’

Then you can go to hell as far as I’m concerned.’

The argument was interrupted by the return of the M.O.S.
man, accompanied by an army major.

‘All set?’ asked the major brightly.

‘He hasn’t signed the forms yet, sir,’ said the sergeant.

‘I don’t intend to,’ said Sawyer. ‘Furthermore I want an
explanation as to why I was brought here.’

The major looked at Tony Haven then back at Sawyer,
‘Hmmm! In the circumstances, I think we’re prepared to
dispense with the formalities — if that’s all right with you
colonials. Haven?’

‘I guess it’ll have to be OK. It’s either that or break his
arm in the attempt. If there’s any query you can always say
he was granted temporary American citizenship. Very tem-
porary ! ’

The last phrase seemed a huge joke, but its import was
lost on Sawyer.

‘Very well, Martin — ^you’re in ! ’ Haven beckoned Sawyer
to go before him into the office. The major came too, and
closed the door carefully. Sawyer was motioned to take a
seat.

‘My name’s Miller — Intelligence Liaison. You’ve been
brought here — in what I gather was an unorthodox manner
— to take part in an experiment.’

‘Why me?’

‘Several reasons. One is that you’re a qualified research
physicist, and can therefore make sense of certain informa-
tion you may acquire. The other reason is that you’re very
well acquainted with Professor Alec Tavener, lx)th profes-
sionally and socially. The two reasons together make you
the only man for the job.’

‘How’s Alec Tavener concerned in this?’

‘Although you may know him well, there’s a few things
about Tavener you probably don’t know. Two years ago

1 66

he left England to work in Helsinki. The truth is that he
didn’t remain in Finland. He went across the Russian border
to become engaged in some top-secret work on the Russian
hydrogen-fusion programme.’

‘I don’t believe it. I’ve had regular letters from Helsinki.’

‘We’ve read them. Doctor Sawyer. But they weren’t
written there. They were smuggled back across the border
for posting.’

‘I refuse to believe that Alec defected.’

‘I didn’t say that. We just don’t know what sort of pres-
sures might have been applied, or whether he went will-
ingly or not. But we do Imow for a fact that for twenty
months Professor Tavener was working in Russia. We also
know it for a fact that his laboratory there made a major
breakthrough in fusion containment technique. This has put
practical fusion power well within the Russians’ grasp. On
current estimates that gives them better than a twenty year
lead over Western technology.’

‘So?’

‘So we wanted Tavener back. We arranged to kidnap
him and smuggle him out. Unfortunately Russian intelli-
gence beat us at the game. We got Tavener all right, but
he’s been given some drug which has virtually sealed off his
mind. With some difficulty we’re keeping him alive. But
he’s unconscious, and’ll probably remain so until he dies.
And there’s a twenty year leap in power technology locked
up in his brain.’

‘Which is hard luck, but I don’t see how I can help.’

‘You can help a great deal. There’s an experimental tech-
nique called mind-jaunt, which in theory could enable the
information to be extracted from Tavener’s mind without
his conscious participation. We want you to get that infor-
mation for us.’

‘Naturally I refuse.’

The big American shifted awkwardly on his chair. ‘You
can’t refuse, Martin. We’re not giving you the option.
That’s why Cassius was brought in. With or without your
consent, you’re going to go through with it. I can only
advise you not to resist. There’s too much at stake to let
niceties stand in the way.’

167

‘Is that a threat ? '

‘Hell, yes! We aren’t playing games here. This is for
real.’

The telephone rang on Major Miller’s desk. He took up
the handset, listened and winced.

‘I’ll have to ask you to wait outside for a moment.
There’s a right rumpus going on upstairs. If I don’t separate
the combatants, there’ll probably be bloodshed. And we all
know whose blood it won’t be.’ He glanced ruefully at the
ceiling. ‘I won’t keep you longer than I need.’

Sawyer and Haven went back into the hall. Although the
American appeared ponderous and slow. Sawyer was in no
doubt that if he attempted to make a run for the door, his
friendly guardian would reach the portals first. He had the
feeling that Haven would have vastly preferred to be else-
where and otherwise engaged, but it was obvious that
the man had a job to do, and was highly competent to do
it.

‘Is that Sawyer ? ’ Some ten minutes later a woman in her
early thirties, dressed in a white surgical coat, came down
the stairs and crossed the hall. The relative youthfulness of
her face was contrasted by her hair, which was going pre-
maturely white. Her eyes were curiously bright and pene-
trating. Underneath the clinical detachment of her
appraisal. Sawyer thought he could detect the bright nail-
head of a more personal interest. She regarded him search-
ingly for many seconds.

‘He doesn’t look very intelligent,’ was her final disparag-
ing summary. ‘If you cretins have bungled this one. I’ll skin
the lot of you.’

Two

Sawyer found his mouth had opened as if to start a protest
against this unwarranted denigration. Finding nothing to
say, he closed his mouth again and fell to wondering why
the woman had made such a great impression on him.

‘Who was that?’ he asked Haven, as the white-coated
figure went into the office.

‘That was Cassius — Doctor Andrea Cass to the outside
world.’ The big American had tensed when she appeared.
Now he was relaxing out of some extreme of emotion —
was it fear or anxiety? — and turning the nervous energy
into a slightly forced smile. ‘You know, Martin, she took
quite an interest in you. I think you made a hit there.’

‘You could’ve fooled me.’

‘But then you don’t know Cassius like we do. Underneath
that clinical exterior beats a heart of purest cold. She’s
unique, is Cassius. When they made her, they broke the
mould. Cal Tech acquired the pieces for their cryogenics
lab. Nearest they ever came to absolute zero.’

‘That I can believe.’

‘Then there’s something else you’d better believe. You’re
going to get a glimpse of a part of life usually kept in the
shade. Cassius is the world’s top adviser on persuasion tech-
niques — that’s brainwashing and torture science to you.
Her clients are many apparently benign governments, yours
among them. Uneasy consciences in high places give her
some extremely formidable friends — most of them above
the law. For your own sake, keep in line. You can’t expect
to win against people like her.’

‘I wasn’t thinking of trying. I’m a natural-born coward.
Even my yellow streak’s got yellow streaks on it. All I want
is out.’

‘Well, you won’t get out until Cassius gets what she
wants. So don’t do anything ridiculous, like trying to es-
cape. Firstly, you wouldn’t make it. Secondly, you’d sure as
hell regret trying. Remember, nobody’s really concerned
with what happens to you.’

‘I’m concerned,’ said Sawyer, morosely. ‘How’d I get in-
volved in this nightmare, anyway?’

‘You’ve the distinction of having been Alec Tavener’s
closest friend for many years. For some reason that’s im-
portant to them.’

‘I still can’t see why. What’s the angle?’

‘Martin, I don’t know, and I don’t even want to know. I
stopped being curious about the time I first started working
with Cassius. Not knowing, is about the only way I get to
sleep nights. She learnt her trade in Korea, and polished it in

169

Viet Nam. Some of the things I’ve seen that hell-bitch do
wake even me up crying for my mother.’

Major Miller came down the stairs looking dishevelled
and more than a little disturbed. Whatever was happening
behind the scenes had obviously got beyond his control. His
mood was chastened, and he had the air of a man forced to
accept an unacceptable compromise. Sawyer reflected he
had seldom seen a man more ill-used by circumstance.

‘Doctor Sawyer — Doctor Woulfe, whose apparatus we’ll
be using, will explain to you the principles of mind-jaunt.
Because of the technicalities and the political climate, the
explanation will be necessarily brief. In the experiments
which follow, Woulfe will now be acting as adviser. The
actual operation will be under the control of our American
colleagues.’

‘I take it that Cassius wins again,’ said Sawyer quietly to
Haven.

‘It never goes any other way,’ said the American, care-
fully, as he shepherded Sawyer back into Miller’s office.
‘Bear that in mind, boy, when you get to the point where
you feel like spitting in her eye.’

Woulfe, his professional calm and composure shattered
by exposure to forces wilder than he had encountered in
any classic Freudian psyche, looked like a man recently
woken into the midst of a disaster. His naturally white and
silken skin was covered by a film of perspiration, which,
reflecting the artificial blue of the fluorescent lamps, re-
minded Sawyer of the scales of a putrefying fish. It said a
great deal for the man’s equilibrium that when he began to
speak, his habitual lecture manner returned even though his
bow tie was awry and his cuff-links dangled unfastened
from his cuffs. He made a point of not looking directly at
Cassius, who sat alone with a critical expression and
watched him as if he were a mouse on which she intended
to pounce.

‘Doctor Sawyer — to give you some idea of what’s going
to happen here. I’m going to tell you briefly about the tech-
nique called mind-jaunt. There are disagreements about
how much you need be told, but you’re going to take part
in the deepest mind probe ever attempted. If you’re to

170

handle what you find there, you’ll need at least an elemen-
tary knowledge of what it’s all about.’

‘Speed it up, you old fool ! ’ said Cassius. ‘We don’t have
all week.’

Woulfe ignored her. ‘The best way of explaining mind-
jaunt is to go back to fundamentals. When attempting to
understand learning processes in infants, it’s convenient to
think in terms of perceptural models. One can surmise that
an infant on first exploring the physical world, builds in his
mind a perceptural model which is the analog of what he
encounters. This model he modifies and refines by experi-
ence until it becomes a useful working approximation of
reality. It’s as if the brain came to contain a model of the
part of the world in which its possessor lives.’

Sawyer nodded. ‘I’m with you that far. But I don’t
see . . .’

‘You don’t see its relevance.’ Woulfe stopped and
mopped his brow. ‘The relevance is this : when we started
to look closely at perceptural models, we found they
weren’t just a descriptive convenience — they quite literally
exist. Nor are they confined to infancy. We all carry
models of our personal worlds around inside our brains.’

‘I’m not too clear what you mean by “model”.’

‘The information’s coded by the mind in a complex multi-
access store which we don’t pretend to understand. But the
concepts forming the model are related to each other in
such a way that for all practical purposes we’re dealing
with a three-dimensional replica. These are the streets
through which imagination roams, the territories of dream
and nightmare, and the source of all recognition. Faults in
the model are characterised by paramnesia, and loss of
access to the model results in amnesia. But the key to it all
is the cognicenter.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Sawyer.

‘It’s a term we use to denote the point of consciousness
which inhabits the model in the same way that “self” in-
habits the world at large. It’s normally present in the model
at the analog point corresponding to the presence of the
person in the outside world. Such a coincidence is the con-
dition of full awareness. Sometimes the cognicenter wan-

ders off into another part of the itiodel, thus producing a
lack of concentration and a division of the attention. At
such times the brain is literally trying to process the infor-
mation obtained from two non-congruent worlds.’

‘But surely the conscious brain doesn’t accept both inputs
as being of equal value ? ’

‘Normally it differentiates between them — ^but the divi-
sion’s not as clear-cut as you’d think. It’s remarkable how
frequently during waking hours our actions are directed by
the model and the cognicenter rather than by actual per-
ception. The motorist who didn’t “see” the pedestrian may
be speaking the literal truth — the pedestrian wasn’t present
on the model street down which he was driving at the time.
And in darkness, fog or certain types of illness, it’s likely to
be the cognicenter rather than the perception to which the
conscious mind refers for direction.’

‘You’re wasting time, Woulfe,’ said Cassius, becoming
angry. ‘Come to the point or drop it altogether.’

‘The point comes now,’ said Woulfe, stiffly. ‘We suc-
ceeded in defining what the cognicenter was. It’s the mutual
intercept point of seven different rhythms in the brain,
some of which are characteristics of the standard eeg
waves. Progression of the cognicenter through the model is
achieved by subtle adjustments of phase relationships.’

‘Does he really need to know this much ? ’ said Cassius.

‘For what you’re proposing, Cassius, he needs five years
preparation. That he’s followed me so far in ten minutes is
a reflection of a mind of outstanding ability.’

‘I’m already revising my estimate of Doctor Sawyer. It’s
now my impression that too much information is even
more dangerous than too little.’

‘Then I can’t agree with you.’ Woulfe’s equilibrium
cracked ever so slightly. ‘Doctor Sawyer, you can think of
the cognicenter as a point of heightened activity in the
brain. The cells of the model are themselves discharged by
the presence of the cognicenter, and this discharge forms
the output from the system. Since the cognicenter is itself a
phase phenomenon, it’s amenable to duplication or control
by certain electrical simulation techniques.’

172

Sawyer sat up. ‘If I read you right, you’re saying that the
cognicenter can be artificially manipulated from outside the
skull?’

‘I’m saying a lot more than that. We can create our own
cognicenter, manipulate it through the model, collect the
resulting pattern of discharges, and display them for view-
ing by a second party. In short, we can take a trip through
a man’s mind and see what his world looks like from the
inside.’

‘That’s fantastic ! ’ said Sawyer. ‘I’d no idea anything like
that was possible.’

‘It’s been possible for some time. We developed it as a
diagnostic technique, especially for schizophrenia, where
there’s evidence that the natural cognicenter is fragmented
or diffuse. Unfortunately the powers that be’ — he glanced
at Cassius accusingly — ‘decided that the ability to inspect
the mind from inside was too valuable to be wasted on
mental health. They put it under wraps as a potential
means of security screening. I’m happy to record it’s been
an abject failure in this application.’

‘Abject failure?’

‘An individual’s perception is filtered through a set of
screens reflecting the overtones of emotional experience,
education, prejudice, suggestibility and similar factors,
which modify and distort the picture before it’s recorded in
the model. Thus every person’s inner world is different and
unique. It takes a very close match of sympathies, experi-
ence and understanding, and a great deal of personal know-
ledge, before a “viewer” can hope to gain anything more
than a fleeting and obscure set of images. A psychotherapist
might achieve access to his patient after six months of con-
tact and willing comprehension. It’s no use at all for screen-
ing somebody who just jumped off a boat.’

‘So where does this place me?’

‘Right here. Doctor Sawyer ! ’ Cassius had advanced and
was intent on taking control of the conversation. ‘You’re
Tavener’s best friend. You went to college with him, and
you’ve worked with him on the Perseus project. He was a
frequent guest at your house until he went abroad. If any
man can understand Tavener’s mind, it’s you. Just as im-

173

portant, you're qualified in the same field, so you can
understand the technical content of whatever you find. So
you’re going to take a jaunt into Tavener’s mind, and
you’re going to recover the details of the work he was
doing in Russia.’

‘I don’t fancy the idea of entering anyone’s mind, least of
all Alec’s.’

‘I don’t care what the hell you fancy.’ She rounded on
him instantly. There lurked something like a tiger, bright
behind her eyes. ‘I’m not asking you. Doctor Sawyer — I’m
telling you. And sure as hell you’d better co-operate. This
operation’s outside the scope of your mamby-pamby laws,
so don’t think you’ve still got any legal rights. If you dis-
please me. I’ll destroy you. So if you value your life and
health, do exactly as I tell you, and neither more nor less.’

‘That sounds like a convincing argument.’ Sawyer’s voice
was slightly ragged with emotion. ‘I don’t appear to have
much option.’

‘You don’t have any option. But I’ll be watching you
very closely. Doctor Sawyer. Because you’ve the look of a
man who still thinks he can win.*

Three

‘There you are, Martin!’ said Haven. ‘Does that answer
most of your questions ? ’

‘Only to raise a whole deal more. There’s no love lost
between Woulfe and Cassius, is there?’

‘Woulfe’s being a damned fool. At the moment he’s in-
dispensable, because he’s the only one with sufficient know-
ledge to make the jaunt work properly. But as soon as
Cassius can find a competent replacement, Woulfe’s a dead
pigeon. Nobody bucks Cassius and gets away with it.’

‘I thought the old fellow was being very brave.’

‘He’s a damned idealist. He’s convinced that mental
health is more important than political stability.’

‘If Cassius is an example of the price we pay for stability,
then I’d say he was unarguably right. If he was allowed to
succeed in his job, we probably wouldn’t need Cassius in the

174

first place. In fact, there wouldn’t even be a vindictive bitch
like Cassius.’

‘Which piece of naivety shows you’ve never even
thought about the subject.’ Haven was disgusted. ‘Honestly,
Martin, you scientists worry me. You spend so long with
your head in your books you’ve not the remotest idea what
motivates people.’

‘And you political guardians worry me. Your approach
to politics is an exact parallel to the Spanish Inquisition.
And think how that looks on the pages of the history
books.’

‘They may have had Torquemada, but they didn’t have
Cassius. If they had, those history books could well have
been written in Latin. Think on that one, Martin. It’s the
thing that succeeds which gets taught as being right. If you
fail, history marks you down as the bad guy. Why? Be-
cause it’s the successful who get to write the books on
history.’

‘Where’s Alec Tavener now? Is he here?’

‘He’s in a special intensive-care unit upstairs.’

‘Can I see him?’

‘Through a window, of course. But what’s to see ? I guess
his nose shows over the sheets, but that’s about it.’

‘I’d like to see him, anyway.’

‘Be my guest ! ’ The big American indicated for Sawyer to
go before him up the stairs. He glanced at his watch.
‘We’ve got about an hour before they’re ready to start you
through the jaunt. You’d be better advised to try and get
some rest.’

‘Rest ! ’ Sawyer pretended to be aghast. ‘There’s one thing
nobody around here seems to have taken into account. Alec
Tavener’s one hell of a physicist. He plays physics like he
plays the rest of life — full tilt at the Devil, and the last one
pays for the drinks. If I don’t seem too enthusiastic about
this jaunt, it’s partly because I’ve a rough idea what the
world of Alec Tavener is like.’

He had imagined a hospital suite upstairs, but no smell of
medicaments was present. Wonderingly he preceded Haven
to the top floor and was then directed up a flight of small
stairs which opened out on to a flat area of roof. Here the

175

mystery was explained. Three prefabricated cabins forming
a sterile theatre and auxiliary rooms had been positioned on
the roof, presumably by means of a helicopter. Sawyer was
not permitted to enter the unit, but he was allowed to stand
in the chill Highland air and peer through the sealed cabin
window.

There was no way of knowing whether the covered
figure on the elaborate theatre table was or was not Alec
Tavener. The proportions tended to confirm that it was. The
medical equipment was comprehensive and very expensive.
It was obvious that no expense was being spared to keep
the figure on the table alive. So strongly did this contrast
with Cassius’s low regard for the value of human life, that
Sawyer winced at the thought. The big American was
watching the emotions on his face.

‘What’s eating you now, Martin?’

‘All that equipment — not to preserve a man, but to
preserve something he knows. How twisted can your values
get ? When Cassius has what she wants, I suppose they’ll let
him die?’

‘He’d have died a long while ago if he hadn’t been in
there. What’s the use of preserving a living corpse ? No use
making yourself sick over that.’

‘I suppose not. It’s just that the principle makes me feel
cold in my guts.’

‘We’d better go down again,’ said Haven. ‘They’ll be
looking for you soon. You’re to have your head shaved
before they fit the helmet.’

‘Is that necessary?’

There was a cynical smile on Haven’s face. ‘Possibly not.
If I had to guess. I’d say that Cassius was starting to rub
little pieces off you, to see how far she can go before you
bleed.’

Sawyer turned unhappily to follow the American back
down the stairs. It was just past dawn on a damp and cheer-
less morning. Beyond the cabins on the roof he could see
the length of what appeared to be an abandoned airstrip.
The ruins of a hanger stood dark at one end; a pole with
tatters of an ancient wind-sock stood forlornly at one edge;
and beyond this rose a rockstrewn moor rising up to meet

176

the distant range of hills. If he had thought of escaping, the
prospect of being the quarry in an exhausting manhunt
across those moors was the last thing that would tempt him
to try.

The equipment, which had been driven out to the centre
of the airstrip on the back of the land-rover, appeared at
first to be a kind of diving apparatus. On closer examina-
tion, the helmet, though complex, was in no way airtight,
and the body packs were heavy with electronic instruments
and not cylinders of air. Sawyer looked at the apparatus
warily, then back to Cassius. He was acutely conscious of
his shaven head, and apprehensive about what was going to
be done to him. Cassius’s purposeful attitude left him in no
doubt that his role was that of experimental animal, and
that his subjective feelings and private sufferings were quite
irrelevant. The only concession was that she answered his
unasked question about the peculiarity of the locale.

‘Why out here. Doctor Sawyer? For the sake of reality
we’re using a computer-generated three-dimensional sim-
ulation technique. When you “walk” through Tavener’s
model, you’ll actually walk out here. The transducers and
picture tubes in the helmet will give you all the visual and
sensory information derived from the model. Your own
position and attitude will be transmitted back to the com-
puter, which will use the information to control the posi-
tion of the artificial cognicenter in the model. While you
physically move in real-space, your mental impressions will
be that of a journey through Tavener’s model.’

As the technicians prepared the cumbersome equipment
on the truck. Sawyer looked about him. The airstrip and the
surrounding grassland were featureless and forlorn. At the
end of the broken tarmac the ruined hangar, black and with
a decaying outline like a rotting tooth, seemed somehow a
fitting symbol of the desolate and macabre mood of the
day. The dark outline of the hills beyond seemed to em-
phasise that this was a place for shades and bad intent. Even
the birds were silent and still.

Uncomfortable though the helmet appeared, its applica-
tion was even worse. The actual fitting over his head filled

177

Sawyer with a nausea and a sudden panic which caused
him to try and draw out of it again. An excruciating pain in
his left arm told him that Cassius’s steadying fingers were
causing a nerve pain which he could not endure for long.
He used the pain to overcome the revulsion he felt for the
helmet, knowing that rebellion was useless and that acqui-
escence was the only route to survival. Nevertheless he
called her a bitch under his breath and managed to tread
heavily on her instep under the pretext that with the
helmet in place he was effectively blind. A long hiatus
followed, but her fingers were withdrawn.

The leather helmet proved hot and heavy, and was strap-
ped he thought needlessly tight at the back of his head.
Cold studs of metal covered with a conducting jelly made
uncomfortable contact with his shorn scalp, and in place of
an eyepiece or vizor, some sort of electronic optical system,
currently not functioning, shut out all vision except for a
tiny suggestion of light which scattered from the surface of
his still exposed nose. Stout headphones on the helmet were
cushioned around his ears, cutting off almost all the inci-
dental sounds which had been about him. A strong strap
under his jaw pinched his skin as it was tightened. Thus
hooded and effectively prevented from perceiving his im-
mediate environment, he felt terribly vulnerable and very
much afraid.

His vulnerability was emphasised immediately. Although
the morning was damp and chill he felt his jacket being
removed from his shoulders and his shirt and vest being cut
away with the cold steel of a knife. He tried to protest, but
the microphone chamber around his mouth probably made
his comments locally inaudible. Nevertheless, as if to re-
mind him that his was supposed to be the passive role,
somebody knocked him to the ground. He bruised his
elbow, and grazed his shoulder on the tarmac, but the
lesson went home. Thereafter he stood patiently while
they fitted the tight harness around his chest and shoulders
and added the weighty electronic packs.

Cassius’s voice broke through clearly on the headphones.

‘How’re you doing. Doctor Sawyer?’ There was a trace
of mockery in her voice.

178

‘The harness and blinkers fit fine. But I think you forgot
the cart.’

‘1 never forget important details. Doctor Sawyer. But
keep the sense of humour. You’ll maybe find you need it.
Are you ready to start?’

‘Dressed like this, I don’t have any other damn place to

go:

‘Then stand quite still until 1 get back to the control
truck. You’ll be told when to proceed.’

‘Whatever you say . . . Andrea.’

‘Take care. Doctor Sawyer! You’re in no position to be
impertinent.’

‘Do you prefer being called Cassius?’

‘Just keep your mind on the job. What I’m called is
irrelevant.’

‘Not to me, it isn’t.’

‘I’ve not quite got the measure of you yet. Doctor
Sawyer. But I think you underestimate the seriousness of
your position.’

‘But I’ve one slight advantage. I do have the measure of
you. You’re a perfect bitch, Andrea!’

Suddenly she laughed. ‘Very well, Martin ! If you wish to
play this out on a personal level. I’ll find it the more enjoy-
able. It’s going to be a pleasure, working on you.’

She cut the connection, presumably while the land-rover
drove her back to the control truck. There was a crackle,
and Tony Haven’s voice came through on another channel.

‘You’re a bloody fool, Martin! Taking Cassius on like
that. As a neutral test subject, you stood a fair chance of
getting out of this undamaged. But if she regards you as a
toy . . .’

‘She threw down the challenge the first moment we met.
All I did was toss it back.’

‘But why the hell take the risk ? ’

‘Look, Tony, I didn’t ask to be included in this. But if I’m
doing the batting, I intend doing it my way.’

‘Suit yourself,’ said Haven. ‘But I hope you know the
name of the game.’

There was silence then for a long period. Despite the fact

179

that much of his torso was bare, the straps and the harness
served to mitigate some of the morning’s chill. Though
rendered blind by the helmet, his fingers explored the
various clips and buckles of the equipment. He also found
the multi-pole cable connectors feeding the systems to his
helmet, and familiarised himself with the twist-lock releases
on the couplings. He estimated he could break all the line
connections inside ten seconds, and be entirely free of the
helmet and harness in about three quarters of a minute. It
might never be necessary, but it was as well to be prepared.

‘If you’re thinking of escape, Martin, forget it.’ Cassius’s
critical voice returned to the headphones. There’s no way.
But if you feel like trying it. I’ll enjoy stopping you.’

‘Let’s forget the commercials and get on with the pro-
gram.’

‘Just coming on-line. We don’t know exactly where
you’ll break into Tavener’s model, or what time-depth
you’ll encounter. This first jaunt will be to get you some
field experience, and give you a chance to get orientated.’

Sawyer shivered suddenly as a cold wind sought his
midriff.

‘The field experience. I’m already having. 1 don’t rate it
very highly. Even my goose-pimples are growing goose-
pimples.’

‘1 hope you aren’t weakening, Martin. Because I’ve
scarcely started on you yet.’

There was a sudden light before his eyes, and a rushing
sound in his ears. Neither sight nor sound was coherent, and
he stood dumbfounded, wondering if this was to be the
continuing content of the experience.

‘Are you receiving anything, Martin?’ Cassius’s voice
came sharply impressed over the background.

‘A sort of pink noise and a lot of multi-spectral flashes. If
this is the best you can do, we’d best pack up and go home.’

‘You should get so lucky ! We’re just bringing you into
synchronisation. Stand by for action.’

The impressions changed abruptly. Sawyer’s reaction was
a cry of disbelief. He was no longer standing on a Highland
airstrip. Instead he was on the pavement of a London street
he vaguely knew. If he consciously willed it, he could make

i8o

himself aware of the helmet on his head and the weight of
the equipment packs and the cold chill around his
stomach : but these impressions seemed illusory and unreal
compared with the immediacy and sense of presence he
felt. The overwhelming realism of the scene compelled
belief in its existence. Like it or not, he had become an
inhabitant in the model world of Alec Tavener.

Four

‘Breakthrough?’ asked Cassius’s voice, out of nowhere.

‘I’m here, if that’s what you mean.’

‘Fidelity good?’

‘The best. I’m more here than I would be if I were here in
actuality, if you see what I mean.’

‘Right, Martin! We’re going to leave you alone for a
while — ^give you the chance to get used to the situation. The
computer will check your movements on the field and
track you through the model, so you should find move-
ment’s no problem. If you run into something you can’t
handle, yell, and we’ll bring you out.’

Experimentally, Sawyer looked around him. Although he
knew that his vision was coming from two miniature tele-
vision picture tubes in his helmet, it was virtually impos-
sible to believe that the scene around him was not real and
that he was not seeing it directly with his own eyes. When
he turned his head there was a slight delay before the
mechanism sensed the movement and adjusted the image
accordingly, but this was tolerable and something to which
he found he could easily adjust.

He tried walking. Again there was a fractional hesitation
in the response, which placed the image slightly out of
phase with the movements of his feet, producing a peculiar
rolling sensation akin to that of walking the deck of a
slowly heaving ship. Intrigued, he paced a few steps up and
down the road, feeling that he was walking on slabbed
paving, yet knowing that in actuality all that he had
beneath his feet was the broken tarmac of the abandoned
airstrip. Careful exploration with his feet produced some-

i8i

thing of a shock, for his feet seemed actually to feel the
presence of the ordered gaps in the paving. This made him
aware that it was not only sight and sound which was
being fed into his perception by the helmet. The electrodes
on his head were feeding in a wide range of even subtler
impressions.

His immediate speculation was about the material of
which the model seemed to be made. He turned his atten-
tion to the nearest building. The definition was not good,
showing that Alec Tavener had never looked at it properly,
yet Sawyer’s hands encountered a solid which had all the
texture and response of old and dirty masonry. In this
respect the model seemed as believable as the actual place,
and to restore his link with reality he made his shoulders
chafe against the straps of the equipment packs on his back.
His final test was to attempt to walk through the wall. It
stopped him as effectively as masonry should have done,
while on the airstrip a cold wind bit into his midriff from
the selfsame point of the compass, there being no barrier to
stop it between himself and the distant hills.

'Having trouble, Martin?’ Cassius’s voice was sharp with
curiosity.

'A dual reality — it takes a bit of getting used to.’

‘You’ve achieved that? It’s supposed to be no more than
a theoretical possibility.’

‘Just a knack,’ said Sawyer, modestly. ‘If I fell into a bed
of roses I’d come out intimately covered with fertilizer.’

He heard the determined click as she closed her channel
down, then he began to concentrate attention on his en-
vironment. Whereas at first glance it had appeared to be a
normal street, a more objective inspection revealed an un-
reality which was both fascinating and shattering. Tavener
obviously used this street purely as part of a route to some-
where else. It contained only the elements of observation
essential to this fact, and some areas of the model were
completely blank. Sawyer, whose knowledge of the district
seemed marginally better, could in many cases visualize
what the blanks should have contained; the model, how-
ever, remained obstinately uninformative.

Most of the shop windows contained nothing except a

182

few uncoloured, indefinable shapes. Some windows were
brilliantly lit but contained in detail only a few items of
expensive cameras and attractive coats in which Tavener
had been interested. The impression was that the entire
street was purely a facade, a fabrication akin to a film set,
with none of the shop interiors having a depth of more than
a couple of metres. The skyline, too, was particularly
vague. Only one shop, with a display of particularly fine
audio equipment, had a well-defined window display, and a
door that opened to lead to a shop within. Not wishing to
enter. Sawyer peered through the glass to find a similar
fidelity in the display shelves and in the staff themselves.

Staff ! Up to this point. Sawyer had thought in terms of
an inanimate model, an analog stage-set in which shadowy
dramas were played out. But people were as much a part of
a man’s environment as were bricks and mortar. This shop
contained model staff in the same way that the real shop
had contained staff. The models would presumably have no
independent existence outside of the particular location in
which they had been observed by Tavener. Their function
would be to provide a memory match or comparison next
time their creator returned to the same place. They would
be absent, present, or changed, and thus would be the spring-
source of the resultant observations. There was something
unsettling in the idea of these human images permanently
dwelling in a model hi-fi shop just in case Alec Tavener
should one day drop in to renew a diamond stylus.

A further thought struck Sawyer as he moved away
from the door. These living models would not be people as
they were, but only Alec Tavener’s interpretation of the
people he met. This explained, perhaps, why the shopgirl
had overtly large busts and thighs, while the manager was
scarcely more than a thin, grey shadow. The use of the
mind-jaunt technique in psychiatry was growing ever more
clear to him, but now he felt a certain reluctance to con-
tinue into a more populated part of the model. As a ghost in
a wasteland, he had felt a reasonable confidence, but as a
traveller into the more dynamic, complex domains of
Tavener-land he felt very ill-equipped.

183

The idea of a populated model puzzled him considerably,
and he continued along the street wondering why only part
of it was populated while the rest seemed uninhabited. It
was obviously a question of relevance — whether the entry
had been filed in the short-term, mid-term or long-term
memory. Probably only the things that survived the mid to
long-term memory transfer became parts of the model,
while short-term images were rejected to keep the scene use-
fully uncluttered.

It was by looking for them deliberately that he became
aware of the transients. These were fleeting, short-term
images of all the cars, pedestrians and other moving objects
which had filled the scene at any time in Tavener’s experi-
ence, yet were too transitory to become part of the model
proper. By deliberately focusing on them and carefully
following their progress. Sawyer could catch the fleeting
impression of a bus or a car or a walking shopper. There
were hundreds upon thousands of these ill-perceived ghosts,
a mighty throng of dynamic shadows which surged in the
limbo around him, yet were still and quiet as soon as he
relaxed his attention. Sawyer shrugged them from his per-
ception, and returned the street to the deserted quiet of a
ghost town.

He continued down the street, recognising that he, him-
self, normally turned right at the next comer on his way to
the station. To his surprise, the right hand turning proved to
be a foreshortened backdrop of the road, with no actual
means of access. Apparently Tavener occasionally glanced
in that direction, but had never turned down it, and there-
fore the street had no existence as far as the model was
concerned. Conversely, by continuing straight ahead.
Sawyer was entering territory with which he himself was
unfamiliar. This would be entirely Tavener-land, and all its
artifacts and population would bear the interpretation that
Tavener had impressed upon them. Already as he slipped
into the end of the street he became aware of strange shifts
of emphasis and a sense of alienness and a disquiet at
trespassing in somebody else’s world.

The first thing which became apparent was Tavener’s
long-term familiarity with this part of the district. In

184

several instances, new and shiny shopfronts had shadowy
veils behind them of places which had been rebuilt, with
the ghosts of the old still showing through the new. The
people in the shops and stores were more clearly defined,
and all save a few shops had the depth which indicated
Tavener’s knowledge of their interiors. Such detailed famil-
iarity struck Sawyer as curious, because from his certain
knowledge Alec had never lived in the district. However a
pied-a-terre or the establishment of a mistress was a distinct
possibility.

The second factor of which Sawyer became aware was a
peculiar shading of the emphasis which seemed to favour
some areas and to shun others; as though there were places
where Tavener delighted to tread, areas which were
neutral, and sections shrouded in a darkness which hinted
at unpleasant experiences and of things better forgotten or
at least not dwelt upon. The impression was that even in
maturity Alec Tavener had still continued to live a life of
more than usual depth and activity, and had continued to
feel joy and love and hate and fear in a way more reminis-
cent of the keen emotions of the young.

‘Well, Martin? What’s the matter now?’

Cassius must have been watching his cautious move-
ments across the field.

‘I’m getting in deep, Andrea. Treading where even Alec
might not care for me to go.’

‘You’ll be going a whole lot deeper yet. Keep moving,
Martin. Get all the experience you can. You’ll likely have
need of it before you’re through.’

It was at the next corner that Sawyer came across the
paper-seller. Until this time he had been under the impres-
sion that the sky was light. Now suddenly he was in an
interminable twilight which was presumably a compound
of countless summer and winter evenings. The paper-seller
sat forlornly at his box against a wall, directly beneath a
street lamp, selling papers to transient ghosts who flitted
from the scene bearing ephemeral news-sheets like a proces-
sion of news-hungry shades. There was nothing transient
about the news-seller, however. His round and very red face
and paucity of pure white locks of hair proclaimed him as

a local character — a person one always expected to meet
on this comer.

More amazingly, as Sawyer approached, the old fellow
looked towards him with every sign of recognition. The
transients became even less substantial.

‘Evening, Professor Tav’ner! Not one of your regular
nights, is it?'

Surprised, Sawyer took the offered paper, and felt to-
wards his pocket for change. An equipment pack on his hip
should have prevented him from getting into his trouser
pocket. However, his hand came back with a coin in it. He
need not have bothered. The old paper-seller appeared to
have forgotten him, and had returned to serving the tran-
sient ghosts.

‘Andrea ! '

‘Yes?’

‘Let me speak to Woulfe.’

‘Woulfe here — what’s on your mind. Doctor Sawyer?’

‘This artificial cognicenter I’m driving — should it evoke a
response from the inhabitants of the model?’

‘Nobody ever got that deeply in before. In theory I sup-
pose it must. The presence of a cognicenter is the thing
which causes the model to discharge. It should evoke some
fairly typical reactions. But without any outside perception
to support the reaction. I’d not expect you to be able to
produce a substantial dialogue.’

‘That’s roughly what I found. An old fellow recognised
me as Tavener, then forgot I existed in a couple of seconds.’

‘An important observation. I’d like you to confirm that
elsewhere if you get the chance.’

Curious now. Sawyer tried to look down and around to
see if he could find out what the cognicenter might look
like to the inhabitants of the model. Limitations of the
mechanics of the optics prevented the success of such a
manoeuvre, and he began to imagine himself purely as an
optical focal point, a kind of insubstantial bubble lens. The
idea was not satisfactory, so he sought an unlit shop win-
dow to see if he could see a reflection. The image which
came back was that of Alec Tavener, probably the man’s

own idealized view of himself, with all his engaging liveli-
ness and ugliness. Something about the image was disturb-
ing. For one thing, it moved while he remained still. Sawyer
could not determine why, so he forgot about it and turned
his attention on the street ahead.

Here it was dark. For some peculiar reason this seemed to
be the place of night, with a relatively low leavening of
daylight which only just broke the absolute blackness of the
sky overhead. Artificial lights were numerous : they shone
from tall lamp standards, were coloured by curtains, and
gleamed invitingly from the windows of bars — and there
was a particularly coloured collection of lights which
illuminated the entrance to a dance-hall and dive which
was the type of place Sawyer himself would not have had
the temerity to enter. Here the street was thronged with
people, not transients such as had inhabited the earlier
approaches, but well-drawn, well-defined characters who
obviously had some relevance to the world of Alec Tavener.
More strictly they were caricatures, for each carried some
distinguishing peculiarity which had been endowed by
Tavener’s imagination. It was mainly the physical attri-
butes of the women which were subject to gross exaggera-
tion.

Experimentally, Sawyer entered a bar. The barman
turned to him immediately, a smile of recognition on his
face.

‘Pint of bitter,’ said Sawyer. The experiment was to
determine if his own voice could be heard.

‘Changed your drink, then. Prof?’ The slight surprise on
the man’s face was soon lost in a cloud of forgetfulness. He
placed a half-filled glass upon the counter and went about
his business. The experiment was over. As Woulfe had
surmised, the dialogue could not be extended. The cog-
nicenter which was Sawyer was forgotten as soon as the
elements of the model had made their relevant discharge.

Sawyer eyed the glass on the counter thirstily, touched it,
and felt the coolness of the glass under his fingers. He raised
it towards his lips, expecting it to meet the mouthpiece of
the helmet. No such sensation came, and he drank grate-
fully, and would have ordered another except that his exis-

187

tence had been forgotten. No matter how he called, nobody
came or even appeared to notice he was there.

Feeling rather like the invisible man. Sawyer left the bar,
wondering if it was theoretically possible to sustain himself
on imaginary food and drink. He had no doubt that he had
consumed half a pint of bitter, just as he had no doubt that
the doors and walls he encountered felt as real as their
actual counterparts. The fact that he knew for certain that
none of these things existed in reality in no way lessened
the subjective impact of the impressions.

, Outside in the street again, he had a curious feeling that
he was being followed. At first he put the impression down
to the presence of numerous transients, but shortly he
became convinced of a half-formed something which lurked
constantly just out of his range of vision. He wondered if it
could be some reflection of himself, a ringing of the biolog-
ical pulses which determined the position of his cogni-
center. Whatever it was, it worried him, but there was no
means by which he could determine its nature. He therefore
decided to ignore it, and continue with his exploration.

Some unexplained shading in the emphasis took him
compulsively around the corner to where a block of apart-
ments rose high against the false sky. Someone in whom
Tavener had been interested must have lived within, if he
could judge by the clarity with which the detail had been
recorded. The preferred route, however, seemed to be not in
through the main entrance but rather by a path which led
to a second door at the side. Intrigued, Sawyer followed the
emphasis, noting as he did so the various shades of mis-
giving with which the way was lined. Whatever pattern of
relationship Alec had found within, it also had its less
welcome aspects.

The side door was unlocked. Inside was a corridor lush
with carpets and illuminated with expensive lamps. Apart
from the elevator there were only three doors leading from
the corridor, and one of these was obviously of special
significance. Sawyer knocked.

‘What the hell?’ An irate female voice sounded close to
the panel, and then the door was flung open. Sawyer found

i88

himself looking into the startled eyes of a woman whose
face was vaguely familiar, although he could not place it.
Her hair was dishevelled, and her eyes were full of sleep,
but otherwise she was a creature of outstanding beauty.
Curiously, though, the model was completely factual, with
none of Tavener’s wishful exaggerations.

‘Alec ! I wasn’t expecting you. But no matter — come in.’

Five

Her tone was one of surprise rather than pleasure. Sawyer
passed her, noting as he did so that she immediately forgot
his presence. The pattern did not seem to fit convincingly
with what he knew of Tavener and, hoping for some
further information, he made a tour of inspection. The
apartment was furnished luxuriously, way beyond the style
to which even Alec Tavener might aspire. Certainly Alec
was not supporting this establishment, even though he was
a welcome guest. While he tried to solve the mystery the
occupant dropped back on to a couch and bit her nails, her
brow wrinkled as if something vital had escaped her
memory.

The lounge and the kitchen revealed nothing of interest,
and neither did the bedroom. Alec may have been a visitor,
but he was certainly not a resident. The study seemed
similarly unrevealing. Only when he turned to leave the
study did he stop, suddenly stunned by something impos-
sible written large in black crayon right across the wall. For
a long while he stared at the legend in frank disbelief. It
was not until he had scraped some of the crayon off with
his nail that he began to accept it as anything more than a
strange hallucination. The message was real — as real as
anything else in these halls of the mind.

It read :

MARTIN —

YOU OLD HERMIT CRAB —

THE MOST IMPORTANT THING YOU CAN DO — IS

SURVIVE !

189

There was no signature. None was necessary. The phras-
ing and the writing were unmistakably those of Alec
Tavener.

Fazed, and still only half believing, he turned and made
his way out of the study. The woman on the couch noted
him with curiosity.

‘Alec, I thought you’d gone . . .’ Then she forgot about
him immediately, and he let himself out of the door.

He encountered the unwanted shadow again in the cor-
ridor. For some reason, it had not followed him into the
apartment. Now its presence fretted him. He wanted time
to explain to himself how Tavener could have left a mes-
sage for him deep inside his own mind. In a moment of
distraction he turned left outside the door when he should
have turned right, and recoiled with shock when he encoun-
tered an invisible barrier halfway down the corridor.

‘Steady, Martin ! ’ The barrier was an invisible arm, and
the voice was Haven’s. ‘We don’t want you ripped to pieces
on the wire.’

After a long delay, a hideous blackness came as the world
of Alec Tavener was squashed by a vast black wing. Then
fingers were at the back of his helmet helping to remove it.
A sudden rush of daylight, and he reeled with the shock of
reorientation as he found himself back on the edge of the
air-strip only a metre away from its rustily barbed peri-
meter.

By some quirk of nature the sun had struggled through
the Autumn and the morning had become pleasantly warm.
Haven and one of the technicians stood close to him with
the land-rover, and the American placed a blanket round his
shoulders as soon as the equipment packs had been re-
moved.

‘How’d you feel, Martin?’

‘Like death revived. As a nightmare, this exercise has a
great deal going for it. As a way of life, it leaves a lot to be
desired.’

‘Don’t let it get too deep under your skin, boy. That was
only a trial skirmish. The real job comes later. Cassius
wants to debrief you now, but we’ll find you some food and

190

a hot bath if there’s time. And Martin, for your own sake
don’t get too smart with Cassius.’

‘You already said that.’

‘This time I really mean it. You’re way out of your
depth. She doesn’t have to care how much or how little she
leaves of a man after she’s finished with him. You just con-
centrate on survival and hope like hell you manage to
achieve it.’

‘Well, Martin?’

Cassius was interested, and also a little amused at his
discomfort. She had not allowed him to retain his blanket,
so that he had to stand before her half naked, and with the
marks made by the heavy equipment harness still apparent
in his flesh. With his head shaven, he felt curiously like an
imbecile dredged out of some ancient snake-pit. By way of
contrast, Cassius was clean and crisp and poised, a model of
clinical efficiency. She had the psychological advantage, and
made sure that Sawyer was fully aware of it.

His own responses were conditioned by the memory of
Tavener’s impossible message that the most important thing
he could do was survive. Co-operation with Cassius was a
prime requisite for survival, so he put on his most charming
professional smile and assumed an air of ease that he did.
not feel.

‘Yes, Andrea? You had some questions?’

She looked at him speculatively, not taken in by his com-
posure.

‘Woulfe tells me that your integration into Tavener’s
mind was as near perfect as has ever been achieved. You’re
a natural for the job. Probably because you’ve only a weak
and plastic character of your own.’

‘You could have a point there,’ said Sawyer, refusing to
be baited.

‘I want you to describe in detail everything that hap-
pened on the jaunt.’

Sawyer nodded and waited till she had started the re-
corder, then gave her the story as he remembered it. The
only thing he omitted was the finding of Alec’s message
written upon the wall. While he was telling the story.

Woulfe came in, looked solicitously at his predicament,
then sat at the table and listened.

‘Is that all?* asked Cassius, when Sawyer had finished.

‘As I said, 1 was halfway down the hall when Tony
Haven stopped me because 1 was too close to the wire.’

Cassius looked back over her notes. ‘This is very en-
couraging, Martin. If you can hold that degree of integra-
tion through the final part of the job, we shall probably get
what we’re after.’

‘I was worried by that shadow or reflection following me
around. Is it possible there was another cognicenter in there
with me?’ This query was directed at Woulfe.

Woulfe started to reply, then stopped, his eyes fixed on
Cassius.

‘It’s not possible,’ he said, finally. ‘Tavener’s own cogni-
center barely exists. It must have been an artifact in-
troduced by our own equipment.’ Something about his ex-
pression showed a complete lack of conviction.

‘Get out, you old fool ! ’ said Cassius. ‘And send Haven in
with some London maps. 1 want to see exactly where this
jaunt took us.’

Woulfe straightened and went out. His face told almost
nothing of the thoughts in his mind. Shortly the big
American came in and spread some large-scale maps over
the table.

‘Now, Martin,’ said Cassius, ‘identify the point where you
started into the model.’

Sawyer consulted the sheets carefully. ‘Right about
here — facing east.’

Cassius drew a line across the map with a pencil. ‘Then
the apartment you entered would have been about here.’

‘That would be it. It lay back a little from the road.’

‘Good ! We can use those points to start calculating our
bearings through the model. It’ll take about three hours
computer work to give us a trial fix. Then you can go in
and verify it. And Martin . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m suspicious of your co-operation. It strikes me as an
act.’

‘If it is, 1 could have fooled me.’

192

‘You may think you’ve something up your sleeve. In the
first place, it’s unlikely. In the second place, it won’t do you
any good. For the moment I’m giving you the benefit of the
doubt. But get out of line and I’ll do you a mischief you’ll
carry to your grave.’

‘I love you, too, Andrea.’

Her incredulous amusement turned to irritation. ‘Get him
out of here, Tony, before I’m tempted to start on him with
my bare hands.’

Haven’s warning nod encouraged Sawyer to make for the
door. The American followed him out.

‘You never learn, do you, Martin,’ he said, sadly.

‘What did I do? I co-operated right down the line, and
she wound up suspecting I was putting on an act.’

‘If Cassius thought it was an act, then it was an act. She
has an instinct for such things. I’ve never known her to be
wrong. I just hope for your sake she doesn’t decide to find
out why you were acting.’

‘But I wasn’t. I’ve nothing to hide. I was picked up off the
streets, remember?’ He turned to Haven for confirmation,
and was baffled to see a trace of amusement on the big
American’s face. ‘I don’t see what’s so funny?’

‘You would if you’d worked with Cassius as long as
I have. There’d be a beautiful irony if this proved to
be the one project which was too hot even for her to
handle.’

‘Are we ready, Martin?’

This time Cassius had not interfered with the fact that he
was wearing a shirt. It was one of Tony Haven’s, and many
sizes too large. He looked and felt ridiculous in it, but it
protected his skin from chafing by the harness and served to
mitigate most of the chill.

‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’

‘Then you know what to look for. We’re attempting to
pick up the model point corresponding to Tavener’s time in
Russia. We can’t be too precise on location, so you’ll have
to establish exactly where you are. We’ll re-program you
from there. We’ve an interpreter standing by in case the
.task exceeds your lamentable Russian.’

193

‘I understand that. Shouldn’t I be wearing furs or some-
thing ? ’

‘An interesting point. But I doubt the necessity. If
Tavener wasn’t cold in Russia, then the model won t be
cold. But if we do see ice forming on you, we’ll come out

with an ice pick and hack it otf.’

‘Thanks for a whole load of nothing.’ Sawyer stood still
under the darkness of the helmet and waited for the next
phase of his torment to begin. Soon there was the kaleido-
scope of lights before his eyes and the hideous rush in his
ears as the induction process was started. Then the scene
hardened and cleared and he stood amazed not by the
difference of the scene but by its similarity.

‘Andrea, something’s gone wrong. This isn’t Russia. This

is London again.’

‘What! I’ll kill that old fool. Don’t move, Martin. I’ve
some sorting out to do.’

‘Check ! ’ While he waited, Sawyer surveyed his position.
He was near the point to which he had previously walked,
not far from the apartment block, and well inside Tavener-
land. The street was deserted and even the busy transients
seemed absent. Not only this, but the whole place had the
appearance of having been abandoned for some consider-
able time. Now that he looked carefully he could see the
windows were heavily grimed, and there were cobwebs
spanning many of the doors. Dried leaves and paper rustled
in the gutter, breaking a silence that was otherwise abso-
lute. The hairs began to rise on the back of his neck. A
London dead . . .

‘Martin!’ Cassius’s voice was cuttingly dangerous. ‘I’ll
string you up and draw your nerves out one by one if
you’re playing a game.’

‘I never felt less like playing games. Your gear’s got stuck
in a groove. And a weird one, at that.’

‘It isn’t possible. We’ve just checked out the time-depth
of the penetration, and it corresponds to the time that
Tavener was in Russia.’

‘I don’t care where he was. I know where I am — and
that’s exactly where I was before. Only this time it’s
different.’

194

‘Different?’ She registered the query but did not stop to
consider it. She cut the connection instead, and Sawyer was
left trying to imagine the vituperance behind the scenes as
Cassius roasted the technical crew responsible.

Having nothing better to do in the limbo of the model in
which he found himself. Sawyer studied the scene more
carefully. Everywhere there was evidence of advanced de-
cay and neglect. It was as though the street had been
abandoned for fifty years while the processes of ageing had
continued. Paint hung in large curls from woodwork which
was deeply splitting. Metal surrounds to shopfronts were
heavily tarnished, and chromium plating had been virtually
eased away from its base by the ravages of the rust beneath.
Adventurous and delicate plant-shoots had exerted their
subtle powers and lifted whole paving slabs upwards in
their efforts to reach this pitiful semblance of daylight.

Sawyer became inwardly terrified. This was a scene
which had never existed and which probably never would
exist. How, therefore, had it become part of the model in
Tavener’s mind? Only if the model had been established
through the twisted filters of madness could it assume this
deserted and terrible aspect. Or was it somehow symbolic
of an attitude of mind?

He thought he saw a flash of white back down the way
he had come on his earlier jaunt, and he moved across the
road to gain a better view. What he saw made him gasp
with astonishment. At the comer, the old paper-seller still
sat, his box now falling to pieces, dispensing faded papers
to nobody at all. The man himself was untouched by time,
his red face and snowy strands of hair looked exactly as
they had before. The news-sheets as he touched them, how-
ever, broke into crumbles of yellowed dust.

Sawyer approached, curious as to whether or not he was
seeing a ghost.

‘Evening, Professor Tav’ner. Nice to see you back!’

The paper-seller handed Sawyer a newspaper which
crushed alarmingly to dust as he attempted to take it.
Sawyer backed away in haste, a new terror forming in his
mind.

‘Andrea.’

195

No answer.

‘Andrea ! *

‘Yes, Martin? What the hell is it now?’
‘Is Alec Tavener dead?’

Six

The rapidity with which the connection was cut was its
own comment on the panic his question must have raised.
Sawyer was not too convinced by his interpretation of the
decay he found around him, but he was looking for any
seed of logic in his surroundings. He did not think he was
psychologically able to continue a journey through a dead
man’s head.

‘No, he’s not dead, Martin. His condition’s unchanged.
What gave you the idea?’

‘This model. It’s the same place, all right. But it’s aged
and deserted like the real place never could be.’

‘It can’t be the same place. You’re in an entirely different
part of the model.’

‘Then it looks as if it’s back to the drawing board for
Woulfe. Are you going to fetch me out?’

‘No, you stay there. There’s something very peculiar
about all this. When I find out who’s responsible I’ll give
him such hell he’ll pray to be allowed to die.’

A sudden sound in the model, the first he had heard save
for the leaves in the gutter and the old paper-seller’s voice,
made him whirl around. A dark shape, no transient, dodged
into the shadows. Somewhere ahead of him a door slam-
med, and the sound reverberated up and down the empty
street. Almost without thinking. Sawyer ran towards the
spot, anxious to discover which of the ancient doors led to
a place beyond, and which was purely part of the facade.
He was too late. There was no means of determining which
door had slammed, nor were there any lights within the
building to give him a clue.

Since Cassius appeared to have abandoned him, and be-
cause the enigma of Tavener’s message was still un-
explained, Sawyer turned towards the apartment building.

196

This time there was no distinct emphasis to guide him, but
a sinister, brooding menace lay overall. He followed the
path round to the side of the building and entered the now-
darkened hall. Something, probably a rat, scurried in the
darkness. The door to the apartment was partly open, and
the apartment was illuminated only by the poor light
which entered through the windows.

‘Is anybody here?’

His question brought a strange quaver to his throat.
Thankfully, there was no reply. He moved into the lounge.
In the dimness the room was much as he had remembered
it, except that the occupant was missing. If there was dil-
apidation here, it was too dark for him to see it. Trembling
slightly, he moved into the study to find the spot on which
the impossible legend had been displayed. He found the
wall, and the crayoned message was still there. The differ-
ence was that the wallpaper on which it was written was
now detaching from the wall.

‘Martin — this is some sort of trick, isn’t it?’ Cassius’s
voice sounded extremely ominous.

‘If it is. I’m the one who’s caught in it.’

‘The only other explanation is if Tavener never went to
Russia at all.’

‘I never said he did. It wasn’t my idea. But it still doesn’t
explain this model of an abandoned London street — ^be-
cause London hasn’t been abandoned yet. Get me out of
here, Andrea.’

‘No, damn you! You can stay there until you rot if
necessary. I have to start getting some damn sense out of
this. I’ll deal with you later.’

Leaving the apartment and entering the corridor. Sawyer
turned deliberately right, remembering how close he had
been to the wire on his previous jaunt. He knew that this
time, having started from a different place in the model, he
had not yet moved far enough to be near to the wire. How-
ever, the thought of falling among those jaggedly rusted
barbs without being able to see them was sufficient to give
him great caution.

In the street outside he found the air of menace had in-

197

creased. Its origin was indefinable; but every line of the
buildings and streets was edged with a shade of something
sinister. The atmosphere almost crackled with a high-ten-
sion expectation of something dreadful which was yet to
come. It brought back to his mind Woulfe’s words : These
are the streets through which imagination roams, the ter-
ritories of dream and nightmare . . .*

The thought was not appealing. A nightmare within one-
self could be bad enough. To be within a nightmare was a
prospect that made his flesh crawl. These deserted streets
were already evidence of the strength and scope of Taven-
er’s imagination. But if he started to haunt the model with
horrors . . .

‘Martin ! ' This was Haven’s voice on a different channel.
‘What the hell are you doing to Cassius?’

‘I’m not doing a thing.’

‘Well, something’s got her worried. She’s running around
like a mad crocodile, biting pieces out of everyone. She’s
driven Woulfe to the verge of a nervous breakdown.
What’s going on?’

‘You tell me. Seems my bit of the model ought to be in
Russia, but isn’t. She can’t blame me for that.’

‘Not if it’s true.’ Haven’s voice was dubious. ‘But I hope
you know what you’re doing, boy.’

‘I’ve just told you. I’m not doing a thing.’

‘I could almost believe you, but I’m dam sure Cassius
won’t. You people sure take one hell of a chance ! ’

‘I’m not people. I’m just me. And I didn’t ask to be here
in the first place.’

‘Then you’re being used as a catspaw in a particularly
dirty game. There’s only one piece of advice I can give : get
Cassius before she gets you — ^because that bitch isn’t going
to show you any mercy when she gets you back here.’

The connection was cut hastily, as though Haven had
been interrupted. For the first time. Sawyer seriously con-
sidered removing the helmet and equipment packs and try-
ing to make a run for it. The only thing that stayed his
hand was Cassius’s warning that she would enjoy stopping
him. Cassius’s idea of enjoyment would undoubtedly be
painful to the recipient.

198

There was a movement on his right, just out of his line of
sight, the same half-formed something which had worried
him earlier. Its presence seemed to heighten the tension in
the model, and the phenomenon was almost surrounded by
an aura of white, which prevented it from remaining too
closely concealed against the wall. With the memory of the
look which had passed between Cassius and Woulfe when
he had raised the point during the debriefing. Sawyer was
now certain that this was another cognicenter, probably
one whose owner was not capable of the empathy needed
for a full access to the model.

‘Who are you?’ He spoke firmly, although a quaver
remained at the back of his voice.

No answer.

‘Andrea — I know it’s you. It was you before, wasn’t it?’

‘Damn you, Martin ! ’ Having been indentified, the strange-
ness grew to a cohesive shape and the white aura became a
starched surgical coat. Cassius was standing beside him. A
wicked looking gun was in her hand. Sawyer became lost in
the speculation of what might happen to Tavener if she
fired it in the model.

‘Answer me one thing,’ he said at last. ‘If you’ve access to
the model yourself, why’d you torment me with it?’

‘Because I don’t have direct access. I’m processing your
interpretation, and using that to give me access. You’re a
pathetically simple creature compared to Tavener.’

‘Thanks very much! Anyway, I hope you’re satisfied. I
told you this wasn’t Russia.’

‘Yes, but what I mean to find out is why it isn’t Russia.’

‘I don’t see the point. Somebody made a mistake, that’s
all.’

‘The point is nobody made a mistake. The here and now
of this part of the model does correspond to the period
Tavener spent out of Finland.’

‘But how can it? Why should he bother to smuggle him-
self back home?’

‘Perhaps because the whole thing was set up to work that
way.’

‘Set up? By whom?’

199

She looked at him pityingly. Tou can’t really be that
naive. Don’t you think that in my profession I might have
acquired a few enemies?’

‘I’d not given it a thought. Now you mention it, it does
have possibilities.’

‘You never lose that blasted sense of humour, do you.’
Her eyes were continuously alert, watching the streets and
the buildings.

‘In my situation, it’s about the only thing I have left.*

‘You won’t even retain that by the time I’ve finished with
you. I’m going to break you, Martin.’

There was a sudden sound in the model. A sharp rattle
like the opening of a window. Cassius heard it, and she
stiffened suddenly and slipped the safety catch on her gun.

‘Who’ve you seen around?’

‘The old paper-seller’s still down at the corner, and I
thought I saw someone go into a door along there some-
where. Everywhere else seems deserted.’

‘You’d better be right. If you’re part of this conspiracy.
I’ll guarantee you won’t get out of it alive.’

‘Hell, I didn’t even know there was a conspiracy!’

‘Then walk straight down the street towards the comer. I
want to see what happens.’ Her gun was pointing directly
at him.

Sawyer did as he was bid, not sure if he was more afraid
of Cassius or of the things he might find in the model. Half-
way down the road his mind caught on to the absurdity of
his position. Here he was on a remote airstrip in Scotland,
wandering blind under a formidable weight of electronic
gear. Near him on the same inhospitable strip of grass and
tarmac stood Cassius, similarly garbed. The walls and halls
of the model through which he trod so fearfully were
nothing but an electronic chimera, reflections of a land
built in the soft pulp of another man’s brain. It was in-
conceivable yet true that these apparently solid walls
around him were nothing more than logical concepts in the
mind of a man who lay unconscious on a bed.

As he passed warily down the street, a reflection in a
shop window caused him to pause. This time the image he
saw was his own, slightly drawn and haggard, but the dark

200

glass was certainly returning his own features. That was
not all, however. A second figure stood near him in the
reflection — ^Alec Tavener, his ugly face set in a broad, dis-
cerning grin. Sawyer swung round, expecting to find the
figure at his side; but he was alone except for Cassius, who
was watching him narrowly from a distance. He turned
back to the window, and the image of Tavener was still
there. It greeted his consternation with a characteristic
mock salute, then faded out of range as though it could
come and go as it pleased through the fabric of the model.

Perplexed, Sawyer continued to the corner, not certain if
his own imagination was playing tricks or whether some
guiding intelligence in Alec Tavener was still subtly control-
ling the scene.

The last idea held a sudden appeal. To induce Cassius to
come into an aggressive model would take her out of the
safety of her own environment and place her in a territory
where an enemy could decide the rules of the game. His
first reaction was to doubt whether any actual harm could
result to Cassius, since it was only through an artificial cog-
nicenter that she was present in the model. Then he re-
membered the complete sense of reality with which the
impressions were received — the indisputable solidity of the
streets and buildings and the cold liquidity of the half a pint
of bitter he had consumed on his first jaunt. The sensations
did not need to have any external existence in order to be
accepted as fact.

And the infamous Cassius has strayed into the hellraising
mind of Alec Tavener . . . Into a baited trap . . .

Seven

Sawyer knew suddenly what he had to do. He had no
idea what sort of effects could be used against Cassius; but
he knew now the reason for the tension in the model. She
was going to be attacked. However, she would have one
certain means of escape — she could remove the vital helmet
which was feeding her the impressions. He had to get back
to her proximity, so that if necessary he could free himself

201

and pinion her arms to prevent her breaking a vital connec-
tion. It would be a dangerous manoeuvre. Almost certainly
Haven would be out on the airstrip guarding her from a
chance encounter with the wire. Nevertheless, he felt he
had to try.

Then he stopped, frozen with horror as he saw the rats.
Thousands on thousands of them, large, grey, red-eyed and
vicious, they eased themselves through cracks in ruined
doorways, leaped from ledges above the shopfronts, poured
out of drains, and scurried around comers in a continuous
tide; the sound of their feet making a continuous scrabbling
along the pavements, and their squeaking filling the air
with apprehension. Together with them came an extra-
ordinary rodent stench, a smell which was utterly nauseat-
ing with its suggestion of foul sewers and slime and hideous
disease. In a continuous, horrific, moving carpet, they swept
up the road towards Cassius.

‘Martin ! ' The absolute panic in her voice proclaimed that
her fear was as much psychological as it was physical. ^

Sawyer turned back towards her, viewing with some
distaste the idea of venturing among the stream of vermin.
While they were nominally targeted on Cassius, there was
nothing slavish about their movements, and more than one
broke out of the rush to make a dart at Sawyer's legs. He
kicked off two of them with a well-aimed shoe, feeling the
weight of their heavy little bodies as he struck out. Another
one climbed his trousers, and he felt the sharpness of its
claws penetrating the cloth. He tried to strike at it with his
hand, but the creature changed its mind and leaped away to
follow its fellows. Thereafter Sawyer took care to keep
behind the running furies and made no attempt to wade
among them.

‘Martin ! ' It was more of a scream than a call. Cassius had
her back against a wall. Encircling her just out of range of
her feet, a thousand snarling rodents filled the area, leaping
over each other and fighting among themselves in their
anxiety to be well-placed for the kill.

Cassius raised her gun and fired straight at the horrifying
throng. To Sawyer’s immense relief the bullet did not pene-
trate the model but richochetted from the concrete and

202

spent its energy against an adjacent wall. Probably a dozen
rats died from the one bullet, because of the density with
which they were packed. There was a minor scrummage in
their ranks, and then new faces appeared at the edge of the
crowd, some still with gore on their whiskers and noses.

‘Woulfe — ^get me out of here!’ Cassius had apparently
given up hope of Sawyer’s intervention, and may even have
read what was written in his eyes. She fired again. Three
shots. The effect was considerable, but the supply of rats
was inexhaustible.

‘Woulfe. For God’s sake I ’ This was an appeal rather than
a command. She expended the rest of the bullets, then flung
the gun as well. There was still no sign that the controller
of the mind-jaunt was going to pull her out.

‘Woulfe I ’ She was actually crying with terror.

‘My dear Cassius,’ Woulfe’s voice came over the head-
phones. ‘I think you’ve cried Woulfe once too often.’

‘Get me out . . . ! ’

The connection was cut dead, as if the psychiatrist did
not care to improve on his own wry joke.

Then Sawyer saw her hands move, and knew that she
was attempting to find the cable couplings on the equip-
ment packs to break herself out of the nightmare. The rats
saw the movement too, and chose that moment’s inatten-
tion to make their attack. Horrified, Sawyer saw her en-
gulfed by a living cloak of carnivorous rats. Her screams
were a fantastic frenzy. She threw herself down and rolled
among her attackers in a last desperate attempt to break the
vital connection before she was eaten alive.

Sawyer knew what he had to do, but his fingers would
not move fast enough. He managed to break his own cable
connections, and the scene went dark, but he did not know
if this left him blind yet still in the chambers of the horrify-
ing mind-scene. The helmet buckles were difficult to mani-
pulate, and each seemed to take an eternity to undo. Then
he was able to wrench the helmet from his head, and the
reaction of something wrong in the sequence of his discon-
nection gave him an instant and violent headache. He was
back on the airstrip and Cassius was on the ground some
little way away, still suited, and rolling and kicking and

203

struggling as though seized by a fit to end all fits. Her hands
were still making convulsive movements with the equip-
ment couplings but the feedlines were yet unbroken. He
was halfway towards her when Haven swung out of no-
where and knocked him down with a cruel blow on the
side of his head.

‘Stay there ! Don't try anything, Martin, or I'll kill you ! '

The big American continued to run towards Cassius,
signalling for the land-rover to come at crash speed from
the perimeter. As he reached Cassius, she stopped kicking
and twisting and sat up, breaking her own cable connec-
tions and leaning forward obediently to have her helmet un-
strapped. By some mechanism she, too, had managed to
escape from the nightmare. As they stripped the equipment
packs from her she stood up and walked brokenly to where
Sawyer still lay.

Thank you, Martin ! ' There was bitterness and irony in
her voice. ‘I know you didn't intend it, but you just saved
my life. I'll never forget your part in this.'

Then she slipped to the ground in a dead faint.

With a sick fascination. Sawyer looked at the face which
fell beside him. Although unblooded, her now deathly-
white skin was plainly and considerably puckered by the
sharp indentations of rats' teeth, especially around her lips
and throat, and the soft flesh round her eyes. It was easy to
imagine the pain and absolute terror she must have ex-
perienced as the rats crawled all over her head and began to
eat pieces from her face.

They lifted Cassius away and drove her off in the land-
rover. Sawyer attempted to stand, but the big American
came over and knocked him down again and put his heel
across Sawyer's throat. But there was humour on his lips
and a kind of admiration in his eyes. Finally he helped the
physicist to his feet and laid a heavy but comradely arm
around his shoulders.

‘Like I said, Martin,' he said affably. ‘You people sure
take one hell of a chance ! '

‘Would it do any good if I said I still don't know what
this is all about?'

‘You can tell me anything you like. But from the look of

204

her I'd guarantee this is one method of persuasion Cassius
won't be using again.'

‘What did she mean,' asked Sawyer, ‘when she said I'd
saved her life?'

‘She meant just that,' said Woulfe. He was driving his
own Rolls southward with micrometer precision. Tony
Haven and Sawyer sat in the back. ‘If she'd stayed in con-
tact with those rats for very little longer she'd undoubtedly
have been killed. But she was re-processing your interpreta-
tion of the model. Whatever your motives, when you took
your helmet off, it disrupted the fidelity of the impressions
she was receiving. The rats lost their reality, and she got
out.'

‘I really loused that one up, didn’t I?'

‘Alec warned you to attend to your own survival. We
didn’t expect you to participate actively against Cassius.
But anyway, it doesn't matter — ^we won on points. Mind-
jaunt is fairly certain to be de-classified now, and Cassius’s
nervous condition will keep her out of circulation for six
months at least. If I know anything of her masters, it could
even be longer than that.'

‘And Alec?’

‘He’ll need a few weeks rehabilitation. Deep sedation for
that length of time won't have done him any good physi-
cally; but mentally he’ll be wonderfully refreshed.'

‘Could those rats really have killed her? After all, they
didn’t actually exist.'

‘They didn’t need to. It was only necessary for her to
believe they existed. Her own subconscious did the rest.
You saw the way the bites registered. That’s typical of en-
hanced psycho-somatic activity. Normally our minds filter
out the worst excesses of the things that happen in our
models. But she was exposed to Alec’s model without any
filters in the circuit. Her psyche will be firmly convinced
that half her face is eaten away.'

‘I still don’t understand how you achieved the image of
an abandoned street in Alec’s mind.’

‘An exercise in hypnosis. The information which builds
the model is compounded as much of suggestion as it is of

205

factural observation. This is why so much of the model
seems odd and incorrect to another observer. Alec was put
under deep hypnosis, and part of the model was modified by
suggestion to appear intriguingly aged and to contain the
rats.*

Tony Haven had been listening to the conversation so far
without comment. Now he leaned forward. ‘Excuse my
curiosity, but nobbling Cassius right under our noses was
the damndest trick Tve ever seen. I’d kind of like to know
by whom we’ve been outsmarted — strictly off the record,
of course.’

‘For that you’ll have to ask Alec himself,’ said Woulfe.
‘Though I doubt if you’ll get a good answer, llie whole
thing was set up for the good reason that a lot of people
were very unhappy about the methods of interrogation
Cassius was using. Interrogation may be an unfortunate
necessity, but taken to extremes you destroy the only thing
worth fighting for — humanity. But since we’re speaking off
the record, Alec never did go to Russia. And that break-
through in fusion technology still remains to me made.’

‘So it was all an elaborate plot aimed at the destruction
of Cassius ? That was a pretty rare piece of organization.’

‘For myself. I’ll be glad to get away from all this cloak
and dagger stuff. I want to get back to my proper task of
developing mind-jaunt for therapeutic uses.’

‘And Martin — what’s your angle?’ Haven was acutely
curious.

‘Would you believe I’m the original innocent bystander?*

‘I’m afraid not. And I don’t think Cassius will either,
when she’s had time to think about it. I’d advise you to go
missing from this planet about the time she gets back into
harness.’

‘But I was an innocent victim.’

‘In Cassius’s book, nobody’s innocent. It’s just that some
need a little more persuasion before they admit to being
guilty. But she took a personal interest in you, Martin, right
from the start. That probably made her drop her guard a
bit. Rest assured, boy, you’re one person she isn’t going to
forgive.’

‘What’ll happen to her?’

206

‘She’s in a state of hysterical shock which will have a
severe aftermath,’ said Woulfe. ‘Frankly, she’s a very sick
woman. One thing few people know atout Cassius is that
she’s totally unable to bear any sort of pain herself. Hence
her morbid preoccupation with pain in other people.
They’re flying her back to the States for intensive treat-
ment. As a medic I shouldn’t say this — but I rather hope
they don’t succeed.’

‘There’s one thing still puzzles me,’ said Sawyer. ‘Who
was the woman in the apartment room ? I can’t help feeling
her face was familiar.’

‘Oh, that was Alec’s sister. She’s a bit of a hellraiser her-
self. Married to some sort of senior intelligence officer who
doesn’t have much time for Cassius. Together they talked
Alec into this. And who else could you find who’d allow
Alec to write large messages on the wall of the apartment?’

207